Eat  Not  Thy  Heart 


Eat  Not  Thy  Heart 

by 

Julien   Gordon 


Eat  Not    Thy  Heart 

PYTHAGORAS 


HERBERT  S.  STONE  &f  CO. 

CHICAGO  y  NEW  YORK 

1898 


7^75 
C  71 


E,7 

COPYRIGHT,     1897,     BY 
HERBERT    S.     STONE     &     CO. 


Eat  Not  Thy   Heart 


CHAPTER  I 

"  I  seen  her  in  dreams." 

"Well,  if  it  don't  beat  all!  " 

"  Only  last  week  she  was  beckoning  to 
me  across  the  saxifrax  patch  down  by  the 
barn  steps." 

"Well!" 

"  My  dreams,  I  tell  you,  ain't  dreams. 
They  're  visions  that  comes  in  the  night  to 
betoken  what  will  be."  She  had  at  mo 
ments  a  touch  of  that  fervor  in  speech  which 
had  made  of  her  father  an  orator. 

"  It  does  look  quaint." 

"  If  you  take  it,  I  '11  slave  for  you."  She 
got  up  and  went  over  to  the  stove,  where  he 
stood  in  shirt-sleeves — not  over-clean — and 
at  whose  dense,  murky  heat  he  wasiwarming 
his  rough  fingers. 

"  The  wages  is  high." 

"  Wages!  " — a  flash  seemed  to  spend  itself 
in  the  word. 


2  EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

"  That's  what  they  calls  "em." 

"  A  foreman  's  a  foreman." 

"  He  says — gardener." 

"  What  '11  be  my  work?  " 

"  The  hens  and  other  fowls,  and  the  but 
ter  'n  cream.  There  's  dairy  women." 
There  was  a  pause. 

"  Write  and  say  you  '11  be  farmer,  and  I  '11 
kind  of  have  an  eye  to  the  poultry-yards 
when  I  'm  not  busy  ....  write." 

It  seemed  strange  to  Joe  she  should 
already  make  conditions;  strange,  but  char 
acteristic. 

"If  it's  a  gardener,  I  couldn't  take  the 
place.  I  ain't  what 's  called  a  complicated 
gardener.  I  ain't  used  to  greenhouses  'n 
flowers." 

"  I  guess  folks  can  do  anything  they  've  a 
mind  to." 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!" 

"You  laugh?" 

"You're  a  queer  one,  Beth." 

It  was  she  who  laughed  now — an  odd 
laugh,  with  an  unpleasant  note  in  it. 

"You  've  said  that  all  along." 

"  I  guess  I  've  felt  it." 

"  It 's  your  ma  tells  you  I  'm  queer,  but  I 
ain't  queer." 

"  I  guess  you  're  terrible  ambitious." 

"  Well,   your  people    won 't  die  of  their 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART  3 

ambitions — they  '11  be  stuck  where  they  're 
put." 

"Ha!  ha!" 

"  O,  you  laugh!" 

He  returned  to  the  question  of  payment. 

"  It  means  wealth  for  the  likes  of  us." 

"  It  ain't  wages,  it 's  salary." 

"  I  guess  we  won't  quarrel  over  the  name 
of  it." 

"  What  makes  you  afraid?  " 

He  blew  on  one  hand  and  scratched  his 
head  with  the  thumb-nail  of  the  other.  He 
cleared  his  throat  and  a  quizzical  glance  shot 
out  from  his  melancholy,  sunken  brown  eye. 

"  You,  I  guess,  Beth." 

"  That  's  silly,  if  I  ain't." 

"  Things  is  n't  what  they  look." 

"  There  '11  be  the  money  and  a  home,  a 
new  house,  the  letter  says,  too,  and  I  'm  sick 
of  this  leaky  place  anyhow." 

"  We  '11  be  their  servants!  " 

"  Joe,  I  believe  you  're  trying  to  plague 
me." 

"  No,  I  ain't.     A  spade's  a  spade!  " 

"We  won't  then.  The  madam '11  live 
close  by.  I  guess  some  day  she  '11  ask  us  in 
to  tea.  I  guess  we  '11  be  real  sociable  with 
them.  I  guess  they  won't  be  proud  with 
their  own  people.  We  will  be  all  like  one 
big  family." 


4  EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

"  Whew!  "  Joe  whistled. 

"  You  're  set  on  plaguing  me." 

"I  ain't,  but  I  know  them  better 'n  you 
do.  They  won't  touch  us." 

"  How  do  you  know  they  're  so  proud?  " 

"  Hain't  you  read  about  them?  " 

"  I  've  read  about  her  on  Sunday  nights, 
in  the  Sunday  papers,  till  my  eyeballs 
ached." 

"Well!" 

"  I  guess  she  is  lovely  to  look  at,  and 
....  good." 

"  It  does  beat  me."  Joe  settled  himself 
comfortably  on  a  wooden-backed  seat  with 
his  feet  at  the  stove-lid.  "  You  was  always 
talking  of  her  and  the  nice  things  those 
folks  get,  and  now  they  've  sent  for  us." 

"Oh,  my  God!  "  she  cried  suddenly,  with 
clasped  hands,  "Joe,  Joe,  take  it!" 

"All  right."  He  puckered  his  mouth 
again,  but  this  time  emitted  no  sound. 

She  flew  to  him  in  ecstasy.  "  Husband," 
she  excitedly  cried,  "  kiss  me." 

He  obeyed,  kissing  her  cheek  fraternally, 
but  without  ardor. 

There  was  something  in  her  that  had 
always  frightened  him.  Something  that  he 
could  not  understand,  but  which  he  vaguely 
felt  should  be  kept  in  check.  Joe  was  not 
analytical.  This  impression  of  danger  was 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART  5 

an  instinct — no  more — unreasoning  as  is 
that  of  self-preservation,  the  blind  reaching 
of  wild  creatures  toward  high  branches  when 
an  enemy  is  nigh.  It  has  survived,  the 
scientists  tell  us,  in  the  upward  struggle  of 
the  drowning.  A  mere  memory  of  the 
monkey  clutching  at  tree-tops. 

Sometimes,  in  the  close  quarters  of  their 
poverty,  when  she  forgot  her  modesty  a 
little,  and  displayed  her  charms  to  him  with 
more  abandonment  than  he  thought  fit,  at 
the  hour  of  her  morning  toilet,  or  when  dis 
robing,  he  would  feel  that  in  her  lay  some 
thing  ill  adapted  to  his  poor  cabin.  It  made 
him  uncomfortable.  His  thin-chested,  round- 
shouldered  sister,  his  angular,  battered, 
wrinkled  mother  seemed  to  suit  more  nearly 
the  limitations  of  their  sphere.  Yet  he  was 
very  proud  of  his  wife — proud  and  fond  of 
her — with,  as  I  have  said,  an  undercurrent 
of  uneasiness. 

Now,  after  this  conjugal  embrace,  she 
went  up  to  her  bed-chamber,  springing  up 
the  rickety  steps  as  if  borne  on  wings.  On 
her  way  she  looked  in  at  a  small  bed  which 
stood  in  her  mother-in-law's  sleeping-room. 
She  neared  it,  stooped,  and  brushed  a  fly 
from  her  child's  face.  It  was  a  fat,  rosy 
face;  the  long  lashes  flecked  with  shadow 
lay  along  the  cheeks  which  were  puffed 


6  EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

out  like  a  cherub's  blowing  on  a  wind-instru 
ment. 

"She  sleeps  hard,"  she  said,  giving  the 
sheet  a  pat  and  the  blanket  a  pull,  "she 
sleeps  hard  after  her  play." 

In  the  morning  when  Mrs.  Bush  first 
awoke,  got  up,  stretched  herself,  donned  her 
simple  gown,  went  with  reluctant,  lagging 
steps  about  her  household  work,  her  face 
was  usually  white.  Her  thick,  black  hair 
straggled  in  elfish  wisps  about  her  forehead. 
Her  dark  eyes  were  small  and  half  shut, 
blind  if  the  sun's  rays  fell  athwart  them. 
Her  nose  was  uplifted  and  defiant,  her  lips 
pale  and  harsh.  Her  hands,  in  winter,  were 
red  with  cold,  dark  at  the  knuckles;  in  the 
summer  they  were  moister  and  more  delicate. 
Her  figure  was  always  the  same,  impressive, 
almost  stately,  even  when  compressed  into 
the  ill-fitting  cotton  frock  of  the  early  hour. 

After  she  had  drank  her  coffee,  however, 
eaten  her  breakfast  of  eggs  and  bacon,  as 
the  warmth  of  the  day  environed  her,  when 
digestion  acted  upon  her  nervous  system,  all 
this  was  changed.  Her  eyes  widened  and 
gained  curious  lights,  unguessed  before. 
Her  nose  seemed  to  grow  chiseled  and 
quivering,  her  lips  red,  while  on  her  cheeks 
a  damask  rose  hung  out  its  brilliant  hues. 
It  was  then  that  people  said  she  was  beauti- 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART  7 

ful.  Her  mouth  and  chin  remained  her  least 
alluring  features.  There  was  something 
unfinished  about  them.  It  was  as  if  the  hand 
of  the  cunning  artist  which  had  fashioned 
her  had  grown  a  trifle  weary  with  his  work 
just  here,  and  had,  with  a  few  careless 
strokes,  sketched  rather  than  elaborated. 
The  mouth  was  small  but  curveless,  its  line 
cold.  The  downward  slope  of  the  thin  lips 
gave  to  the  expression  a  certain  severity. 
The  chin  ran  with  a  somewhat  angular  sharp 
ness  to  lose  itself  under  the  ear-lobes.  It 
held  a  suggestion  of  defiance,  of  obstinacy, 
yet  lacked  firmness.  But  when  her  rich 
color  came  and  went,  when  she  was  animated 
or  pleased,  she  might  still,  in  the  imperfect- 
ness  of  language,  have  been  called  very 
handsome.  There  have  been  world-renowned 
beauties  who  have  had  far  less  positive  claim. 

"She  is  the  homeliest  and  the  handsomest 
girl  ever  I  set  my  eyes  on,"  said  Madam 
Boyer  laughingly  to  Joe  Bush,  when  he  an 
nounced  to  her  his  engagement.  "  I  guess 
she  ain't  ord'nary,  anyway." 

"That  she  ain't,"  said  Joe,  grinning. 

In  birth,  in  education,  Elizabeth  was  above 
him;  that  species  of  American  education 
which  troubles  itself  more  with  algebra  than 
with  grammar;  and  that  birth  which  means 
some  tradition  of  ancestry,  a  parentage  not 


8  EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

entirely  illiterate.  But  in  situation,  if  we 
can  employ  the  word,  she  was  not  his  equal. 
She  was  absolutely  poor,  and,  beyond  this, 
dependent;  the  orphan  niece  of  people  who 
had  taken  her  in  through  charity,  and  who 
meant  that  their  charity  should  bring  its 
guerdon. 

They  were  small  farmers,  eking  out  a  liv 
ing  from  the  proceeds  of  a  hundred  acres 
which  their  narrow  means  prevented  them 
from  turning  to  its  fullest  account.  Beth 
was  her  aunt's  maid-of-all-work,  slave,  scape 
goat.  Still  she  was  treated  like  an  equal. 
She  was  their  near  relative.  Equality  was 
the  motto  of  Pontifex  society. 

At  the  church  sociables  every  one  met  on 
the  same  footing.  The  leading  people  of 
the  village,  Boyer,  the  lawyer,  the  minister, 
the  Rev.  Onesyphorous  Legg;  the  postmas 
ter,  Mr.  Hoge;  the  school-teacher,  Mr.  Frai- 
ley;  the  rival  doctors,  Bradford  and  Small, 
met  the  big  and  little  farmers  and  their 
"  ladies  "  upon  the  same  plane. 

It  was  at  these,  and  walking  to  and  from 
church  of  a  Sunday,  that  Joe  Bush's  brief 
wooing  had  been  accomplished.  His  mother 
was  a  widow.  She  lived  with  her  son  and 
daughter  on  a  farm.  Joe  worked  it.  He 
also  worked  at  carpentering,  was  something 
of  a  builder,  almost  an  architect  in  the  vil- 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART  9 

lage  where  a  flat  roof  and  four  walls  were 
the  sum  of  architectural  development.  When 
the  old  homes  were  despised  for  more  mod 
ern  tenements,  Joe  was  generally  in  demand. 
But  the  pay  was  small.  Sometimes  the 
honor  had  to  suffice. 

Beth  was  not  popular  with  the  young  men 
of  the  neighborhood.  A  certain  superiority 
kept  them  aloof.  There  was  a  stiffness,  a 
haughtiness  which  men  resent.  They  said 
she  was  "offish"  and  "put  on  airs."  They 
thought  it  foolish  in  one  who  was  known  to 
be  miserable,  overworked,  and  was  generally 
shabby. 

Her  father,  himself  a  farmer  and  at  one 
time  well-to-do,  had  dabbled  in  politics, 
which,  in  Pontifex,  meant  bad  whiskey.  A 
late  repentance  for  this  indulgence  had 
turned  him  into  a  religious  fanatic.  He  had 
preached  in  the  market-place.  His  was  a  cer 
tain  rude  erudition,  a  gift  of  eloquence.  He 
had  died  insane.  Her  mother  was  a  Boyer. 
The  Boyers  were  descended  from  French 
Huguenots,  and  had,  as  I  have  said,  some 
traditions.  Lawyer  Boyer  was  a  third  cou 
sin  of  Beth's  dead  mother.  He  spoke  to  his 
wife  of  the  extreme  suppleness,  strength  and 
shapeliness  of  his  young  kinswoman's  limbs 
and  bust;  his  wife,  who  was  presumably  not 
of  French  extraction,  had  never  remarked 


io          EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

them.  It  is  safe  to  say  that  no  one  in  Pon- 
tifex  had  done  so.  They  would  have  told 
you  that  Beth  was  "a  finely  complected  gal," 
and  "  had  a  sharp  eye,"  which  was  intended 
for  compliment.  Her  eyes  were  in  fact  only 
bright  on  occasions.  They  were  often  dor 
mant  and  opaque,  only  discovering  on  rare 
occasions  their  hidden  flame. 

She  hated  her  dependence  at  her  aunt's. 
She  still  more  heartily  detested  the  aunt  her 
self.  Joe's  offer  of  marriage  meant  release 
fromthralldom.  She  accepted  it  without  much 
coyness.  His  awkward  homage  had  been 
on  the  whole  pleasant  to  her.  She  looked 
upon  him  as  upon  an  inferior  creature,  from 
which  attitude  was  born  a  kind  of  protec 
tive  affectionateness.  Possibly  she  secretly 
realized  that  his  was  one  of  those  unselfish 
souls,  always  at  a  disadvantage  in  the  battle 
for  existence;  a  poor  investment.  She  pitied 
him.  But  pity,  which  is  akin  to  love  in 
gentle  natures,  in  more  impatient  ones  has  a 
savor  of  contempt.  Beth  was  impatient. 

Now  she  went  into  her  own  room  —  hers 
and  her  husband's — and  closed  the  door 
behind  her.  It  was  a  forlorn  enough  place 
from  the  standpoint  of  luxury,  yet  it  could 
not  be  said  to  be  entirely  tasteless.  There 
was  an  attempt  at  decoration.  It  was  not 
admirably  ordered,  but  there  were  some 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART          n 

cheap  pink  cotton  curtains  at  the  windows, 
some  plants  in  a  roughly-hewn  box  standing 
on  the  floor  in  the  sunlight,  a  few  fast-fading 
photographs,  and  brilliant,  though  frameless, 
chromos  pinned  upon  the  wall.  On  the 
double  bed  was  a  valence  of  coarse  lace,  a 
quilt  made  from  variegated  scraps  of  silk 
across  its  foot,  the  pillow-cases,  or  rather 
covers,  had  narrow  tatting  upon  their  edges. 
The  valence  and  the  quilt  and  the  tatting 
were  all  Beth's  work.  She  had  nearly  put 
her  eyes  out  over  them  late  at  night  when 
the  babe  was  asleep  and  Joe  snoring,  and 
the  housework  done.  She  was  not  a  nimble 
needle-woman,  but  these  things  she  would 
have  and  .  .  .  she  made  them.  It  was 
a  necessity  of  her  being  to  have  something 
agreeable  to  look  upon.  According  to  her 
lights  these  accessories  to  her  surroundings 
were  agreeable. 

This  room  was  the  only  spot  in  the  world 
where  she  could  find  solitude.  Lonely  walks 
are  not  the  fashion  among  farmers'  wives  and 
daughters,  and  within  their  conventional  rut 
of  life  would  savor  of  eccentricity  —  then 
there  was  never  the  time  —  but  here  at 
snatched  intervals  Beth  could  be  alone. 
Joe  had  early  discovered  that  he  was  almost 
always  in  the  way  when  he  entered  these 
sacred  precints,  and  rarely  ventured  to  do  so 


12          EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

before  the  hour  of  his  evening  toilet.  That 
he  should  make  some  kind  of  a  change  for 
supper  his  wife  exacted.  During  the  noon 
hour  if  he  needed  to  wash  his  hands,  he  did 
so  at  the  yard  pump.  He  could  also  throw 
off  his  boots  and  dry  them  in  the  warm 
kitchen.  Here  was  Beth's  only  safe  refuge 
from  intrusion,  and  here  she  sometimes  came 
to  sit  down  and  "  think."  There  was  at 
times  a  tumult  in  the  young  woman  that 
needed  stilling. 

Privacy  is  the  franchise  of  wealth.  To 
the  poor  its  liberties  are  unattainable.  Let 
us  hope  that  the  generous  laws  of  compen 
sation  which  govern  life  give  its  equivalent! 
The  rich  so  frequently  cast  off  seclusion 
that  it  is  possible  its  advantages  are  over 
valued. 


CHAPTER  II 

Now  she  moved  quickly  to  a  shelf  which 
swung  on  two  nails  at  the  side  of  the  bed, 
and  took  a  book  from  among  the  others. 
There  were  five  or  six  at  the  most,  bound, 
but  tattered  and  white  at  the  edges.  She 
sat  down  with  this  volume  upon  her  knees. 
It  was  the  Bible.  She  closed  her  eyes  and 
opened  it  at  random,  putting  her  finger  upon 
a  text,  unmindful  of  the  page.  She  then 
raised  her  lids  and  read  these  words : 

"  And  I  looked  and  there  was  none  to 
help  me,  and  I  wondered  that  there  was 
none  to  uphold,  therefore  mine  own  arm 
brought  salvation  unto  me." 

Once  more  she  closed  the  book,  and 
opened  it,  her  index  upon  the  text  ;  Prov 
erbs,  this  time  : 

"Thanks  to  the  Lord  ;  for  He  hath  shown 
me  marvelous  great  kindness  in  a  strong 
city,  and  when  I  made  haste  I  said  I  am  cast 
out  of  the  sight  of  thine  eyes.  Neverthe 
less  thou  heardest  the  voice  of  my  prayer, 
when  I  cried  unto  thee." 

13 


i4          EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

"Ah!"  she  said,  and  a  smile  played  on 
her  mouth.  Mechanically  she  flecked  the 
pages,  turning  now  to  the  first  blank  leaf. 
It  was  covered  with  a  small,  irregular  writ 
ing.  The  room  was  growing  dark,  the  twi 
light  was  nigh.  She  rose  and  took  the  Bible 
to  the  window-pane.  She  remembered  well 
the  days  in  which  she  had  written  these 
words  ;  how  long  ago  they  seemed  !  It  was 
before  her  marriage,  when  she  was  still  in 
vassalage: 

"O  God,  help  me!"  they  read,  "I  try 
to  love  and  pray  to  Thee;  some  days  I  am 
all  Thine,  and  I  love  Thee,  then  I  get  rebel 
lious.  Help  me,  O  Lord,  not  to  love  beau 
tiful  things  too  much,  not  to  crave  them, 
not  to  envy  others  their  fine  houses  and 
lands,  and  horses  and  dresses,  not  to  long 
and  long  to  have  such  for  myself,  not  to 
want  to  be  magnificent  and  grand.  Make 
me  humble.  Kill  my  pride,  or  conquer 
it.  .  .  ." 

There  was  more  in  the  same  strain,  some 
what  hyperbolous,  but  well  spelled,  and  ex 
pressed  in  far  better  English  than  she  spoke. 
This  anomaly  is  not  uncommon  among  the 
graduates  of  our  public  schools. 

Yes,  how  long  ago!  Already  things  were 
better,  yes,  better,  shaping  themselves.  And 
to-day, —  to-day,  hope  had  come. 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART          15 

Yes,  she  had  raised  herself  by  her  mar 
riage.  She  had  a  place  now  —  was  recog 
nized.  Her  mother-in-law,  who  suffered 
the  alliance  rather  than  desired  it,  was  just 
toward  her,  and,  particularly  since  the  baby's 
birth,  treated  her  with  more  deference.  For 
the  elder  Mrs.  Bush  was  a  just  woman. 
Joe's  wife  was  a  daughter, — as  such,  a  Bush, 
and,  as  a  Bush,  not  to  be  gratuitously  ig 
nored  or  flouted.  The  Bushes  were  very 
plain  folk  —  but  proud. 

Mary,  too,  Joe's  sister,  liked  Beth  well 
enough,  and  now  that  she  was  going  to  be 
married,  looked  to  her  sister-in-law  for  sug 
gestions  as  to  her  outfit.  It  was  conceded 
that  Beth  was  good  at  "  fixin'  up  things," 
and  could  "  dress  up  pretty."  A  distinct 
tendency  toward  personal  adornment  lurked 
in  her  character.  These  manifestations  of 
vanity  were  in  themselves  peculiar.  She 
dressed  for  women,  not  for  men,  obscurely 
realizing  that  these  value  each  other  more 
for  outward  than  for  inward  graces.  Her 
mean  apparel,  while  at  her  aunt's,  had  been 
to  her  a  source  of  unending  chagrin  and 
humiliation.  In  her  improved  environment 
she  enjoyed  nothing  more  than  the  possi 
bility  of  an  occasional  new  dress.  It  must 
be  said  that  the  exigencies  of  Pontifex  as 
to  elegance  were  not  great.  The  most  ad- 


16          EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

vanced  socialist  could  not  have  desired  a 
more  perfect  system  of  levelage.  Of  course 
there  were  poorer  and  richer,  but  wealth 
was  modest,  conservative,  old-fashioned. 
The  few  houses  of  importance  were  rarely 
thrown  open.  They  had  a  furtive,  apolo 
getic  aspect  behind  their  shrubberies,  all 
signs  of  life  and  animation  being  confined 
to  their  "backyards,"  as  the  small  garden 
inclosures  were  called.  Here  Monsieur  in 
shirt-sleeves  sucked  his  pipe  on  the  veranda 
steps,  and  Madame,  in  a  sunbonnet,  picked 
currants  for  Sunday's  tea. 

In  this  atmosphere  Mrs.  Joe  Bush  had  been 
born,  bred,  and  nurtured.  Her  early  poverty 
had  kept  her  more  or  less  a  prisoner.  After 
her  marriage,  impending  maternity,  then  its 
cares,  the  part  alloted  to  her  in  the  general 
household  work,  all  had  tended  to  chain  her 
within  the  narrow  limits  of  Pontifex  parish. 
Strange  as  it  may  appear,  the  great  metrop 
olis,  which  was  only  a  two-hours'  journey, 
she  had  never  visited  but  three  times  in  her 
life.  She  had  then  passed  the  hurried  hours 
in  one  or  two  of  the  large  retail  shops  which 
offer  to  the  purchaser  every  conceivable  ne 
cessity.  Heated  and  wearied  she  had  eaten 
a  hurried  luncheon,  after  which,  with  the 
country  woman's  dread  of  missing  her  train, 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART          17 

she  had  wasted  nearly  an  hour,  awaiting  her 
husband  in  the  ferry-house. 

Once  she  had  gone  to  the  park  and  been 
driven  around  in  one  of  the  public  carriages. 
She  had  been  passably  disappointed.  She 
walked,  with  Joe  shuffling  by  her  side,  a  few 
blocks  on  Fifth  Avenue.  She  looked  up 
at  the  barred  shutters  and  dusty  hinges 
of  the  front  windows  and  doors  of  some  of 
its  palaces.  They  seemed  to  her  dreary 
enough.  The  absence  of  grounds  about 
them,  their  neglected  gloom,  somewhat  sur 
prised  her. 

"  I  guess  it  's  splendid  inside,"  she  said  to 
Joe,  who,  with  his  hat  pushed  back  from  his 
forehead,  was  nursing  a  toothpick  between 
his  lips. 

"  Seems  likely." 

"  I  guess  they  give  balls  here." 

"  Mostly  in  the  winter.  The  families  is 
out  at  their  summer  homes  now."  It  was 
August. 

"  How  would  you  like'  to  have  that  big 
one?"  asked  Mrs.  Joe  doubtfully,  stopping 
in  front  of  a  white  pile  whose  chaste  serenity 
detached  it  somewhat  from  its  surroundings. 
She  thought  it  rather  plain. 

"  Well,  I  guess  I  'd  make  a  queer  figure 
cutting  pigeon-wings  in  one  of  them  grand 
parlors." 


18          EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

"  If  what  I  've  heard  and  read  about  those 
as  occupies  them  is  true,  they  ain't  always 
better  born  or  reared  than  you,  Joe  Bush." 

"  That 's  so ;  some  men  has  a  powerful 
grip  to  make  money  and  spend  it." 

"  You  've  never  had  a  chance." 

"  I  guess  it  ain't  all  chance.  I  guess  it 
lies  in  the  men,"  said  Joe,  with  that  sagacity 
which  sometimes  surprised  his  friends.  For 
these  friends,  and  even  his  wife,  were  wont 
to  address  him  in  the  tone  one  uses  toward 
children  or  invalids.  Is  it  a  tribute  to  inno 
cence,  or  to  weakness?  It  is  possibly  a  form 
of  respect. 

"  I  guess  all  eyes  is  alike,  but  some  has 
high  walls  in  front  of  them." 

"Well,  I  don't  know." 

"Well,  I  do." 

"I  guess  I  ain't  one  of  'em;"  said  Joe, 
following  his  idea;  "  you  had  ought  to  Ve 
married  one  of  'em,  so  Dottie  could  have 
been  a  lady." 

"She'll  be  a  lady." 

"  Her  mother  's  one,  that  's  so,"  said  Joe 
gallantly. 

"  And  what  'd  she  and  I  do  without  you?  " 
said  Mrs.  Bush  after  a  pause,  during  which 
she  had  reflected  that  this  last  speech  of 
Joe's  deserved  reward.  He  was  not  by 
nature  an  encomiast. 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART          19 

To  tell  others  they  are  necessary  to  us 
unfortunately  carries  no  conviction.  They 
must  be  necessary  to  believe  it.  Joe,  who 
was  a  modest  man,  shook  his  head  pro- 
testingly. 

"  Pontifex  is  a  bad  place  for  them  as  wants 
to  get  up  in  the  world,"  she  continued. 

"All  places  is  bad,"  said  Joe,  with  the 
profound  pessimism  of  the  tiller  of  arid  soil. 

"  I  guess  these  rich  folks  struck  good 
ground  at  any  rate,"  said  Beth,  smiling. 

But  Joe  possessed  one  of  those  rare  natures 
which  draw  no  comfort  for  their  own  impo 
tence  by  belittling  the  performance  of  others. 

"  I  guess  they  knew  how  to  turn  it  to 
account  then,"  he  answered  shortly. 

"  What  I  said  a  while  ago  about  walls  is 
true,  tho',"  said  Beth. 

"  I  've  seen  'em  as  had  eyes  that  'd  pierce 
a  stone  fence." 

Joe  was  right.  Far-sightedness  is  char 
acter.  Perception  lies  deeper  than  optical 
impression.  His  simple,  reverent  spirit  often 
puzzled  his  wife.  His  religion — whose  form 
was  emphasized  by  eating  strawberries  and 
cream  under  bunting  at  church  festivals  to 
the  sound  of  hymn  tunes  nasally  intoned — 
taught  him,  above  all,  resignation;  a  patient 
acceptance  of  his  lot;  gratitude  that  it  was 
no  worse.  If  he  looked  upon  going  to 


20          EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

church,  as  do  most  of  the  members  of  the 
Protestant  sect  to  which  he  belonged,  less 
as  a  certain  duty  and  possible  privilege  than 
as  a  compliment  to  the  "  minister,"  its  prac 
tice  nevertheless  bore  fruits;  sweeter,  per 
haps,  and  more  precious  to  him  than  to  those 
who  seek  transport  in  the  grand  chants  and 
eloquent  appeals  of  stately  temples.  Relig 
ion  is  life,  not  method. 

Beth,  although  she  consulted  the  Bible  as 
a  probably  correct  prophet  of  fortune — a 
practice  that  she  and  some  of  her  school 
mates  had  kept  up  from  childhood  —  was 
becoming,  as  time  wore  on,  more  and  more 
of  an  unavowed  skeptic.  Church  bored  her, 
and  during  the  Rev.  Onesyphorous  Leggs's 
long  sermons  she  dreamed  strange  dreams 
for  a  poor  farmer's  wife.  What  we  have  not 
is  what  appeals  to  our  imagination.  It  was 
with  her  lacks  that  young  Mrs.  Bush's  fancy 
was  paramountly  busy.  She  was  wide  awake 
to  the  trend  of  the  times.  Her  narrow  exist 
ence  longed  for  new  interests,  but  these  were 
material,  and  such  as  would  pander  to  her 
vanity,  which  was  more  boundless  even  than 
her  pride.  Her  point  of  view  was  purely 
personal,  intensely  rationalistic.  She  saw 
in  the  great  movements  which  develop  the 
resources  of  new  nations  and  sway  their 
fate  only  a  means  to  private  ends.  Money 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART          21 

seemed  to  her  the  only  solution  to  the  prob 
lem  which  fretted  her,  the  only  key  to  fit 
the  door  of  that  social  advancement  for 
which  she  secretly  pined.  As  all  lovers 
sigh  for  the  wings  of  liberty  which  riches 
lend  to  love,  so  Beth  sat  restless  on  her  hard 
pew  bench,  listening  to  the  preacher's  tirades 
against  the  powerful  of  this  earth,  who  could 
with  such  difficulty  get  to  heaven,  as  through 
a  needle  the  camel,  while  on  the  other  hand 
he  prayed  the  humble  to  remain  humble  and 
bow  to  the  hand  of  God.  She  admired  the 
strong.  "  Nature's  darling,  the  strongest," 
appealed  to  her  clear  sense,  for  as  yet  she 
had  got  into  no  direct  conflict  with  him. 
She  had  hardly  reached  the  door  of  the 
arena;  the  struggle  and  dust,  the  cries  and 
rush  that  reign  within,  met  her  ears  as 
a  distant  and  invigorating  tonic,  giving  her 
nerves  throbs  of  expectancy.  Now,  during 
the  one  walk  on  Fifth  Avenue,  they  were  all 
on  the  alert,  those  high-strung  American 
nerves. 

"  When  I  was  in  school,  we  read  about  the 
French  Revolution.  I  guess  it  was  just  such 
people  as  these  that  got  their  heads  cut  off." 

"  Eh?"  said  Joe. 

"They  chopped  off  the  king's  and  queen's, 
too." 

"Is  that  so?"  said  Joe,  interested. 


22          EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

"  But  I  guess  there  ain't  any  cause  for  revo 
lution  in  our  free  land." 

"Everybody  can  be  heard  from  here," 
said  Joe. 

"Well,  I  ain't  so  sure — " 

"  We  've  got  a  free  press,"  said  Joe,  proud 
of  this  knowledge;  "the  working  people  is  n't 
stifled." 

"They  'd  better  try  it!" 

But  her  cry  was  not  of  revolt.  It  was  of 
hope.  She  as  yet  had  no  desire  to  destroy, 
only  to  build  up — herself,  her  child — Joe 
would  have  to  be  dragged  up.  She  faintly 
perceived  this,  but  she  felt  herself  capable  of 
lifting  weights. 

Dismissing  these  topics  of  unimportance, 
Joe  began  to  talk  of  a  horse  he  had  lately 
gotten  in  exchange  for  a  cow. 

"Farmer  Green's  folks  is  mighty  mean. 
I  can't  say  as  he  was  high  fed.  If  he  war  n't 
thin!  He  fell  the  first  time  I  drove  him  over 
to  the  depot  crossing,  back  of  Smith's  gate, 
but  he  fell  easy  and  did  n't  do  no  damage. 
He  only  broke  a  strap,  gagging.  Since  I 
nursed  him  up  and  fed  him  a  bit  I  never  seen 
a  horse  as  could  beat  him,  or  do  his  chores. 
Now  he  's  fat  and  slick  as  anything." 

"That's  good,"  said  Beth,  thinking  of 
other  things. 

"  I  wonder,"  she  said,  as  they  swung  and 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART          23 

staggered  in  the  crowded  car  which  was  con 
veying  them  to  their  ferry,  "I  wonder  if  we 
passed  Mrs.  Archibald  Marston's  town  house 
now?" 

"What  do  you  know  about  it?" 

"There  was  a  picture  of  it  in  Mrs.  Boyer's 
Herald  on  Sunday.  It 's  splendid!" 

"You  're  always  talking  of  'em." 

"  She  's  real  exciting  to  read  about.  I 
read  of  her  wedding  first,  and  I  've  kept 
reading  till  I  know  lots  of  things  she  does." 

"I  guess  she  don't  do  much.  He's  a 
capitalist.  I  suppose  they  have  a  mighty 
easy  time,  all  play  and  no  work." 

"Well,  no  matter,  I  like  her  to  have  a  good 
time." 

"I  can't  see — "  said  Joe. 

Here  the  car  stopped  with  a  creak  and  a 
jerk,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bush  made  a  run  for 
their  ferryboat. 


CHAPTER   III 

It  is  not  often  that  any  of  us  attain  exactly 
that  meed  of  success  which  we  have  craved, 
or  conjectured  possible.  Any  gift,  grace,  or 
talent  with  which  we  start  equipped  can  only 
be  retained  and  made  efficient  through  in 
cessant  self-sacrifice  and  vigilance.  This  as 
sertion  should  doubtless  be  inscribed  in  that 
dictionary  of  "received  ideas,"  which  Flau 
bert,  king  of  mockers,  desired  to  dedicate  to 
the  inhabitants  of  Philistia.  To  those  "im 
beciles"  who  could  thus — if  ever  tempted  fo 
the  slightest  originality — dip  back  at  once 
into  the  tenebras  of  platitude. 

It  is  probable  that  Archibald  Marston  re 
mained  an  unprovoked  argument  in  contra 
diction  of  this  assumption.  He  had  made 
no  sacrifices,  had  been  only  very  moderately 
vigilant,  yet  all  the  good  things  of  this  life 
"had  been  added  unto  him."  His  programme, 
to  be  sure,  early  laid  out,  was  mapped  on 
large  lines,  and,  curiously  enough,  it  had  not 
failed  of  its  expectancy.  For  instance,  he 
would  have  regretfully  expressed  the  fear 
24 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART          25 

that  he  should  lose  his  father  at  an  early 
age.  His  father  had  deferred  entering  into 
nuptial  ties  until  in  middle  life.  When  Archi 
bald  was  twenty-three  years  old,  his  papa 
was  duly  gathered  into  the  family  vault 
where  his  father — the  butcher — had  rested 
for  seventeen  years.  Is  it  necessary  to  state 
that  this  particular  butcher  had  been  a  meat- 
dispenser  of  genius?  He,  too,  like  his  grand 
son,  had  a  large  programme.  A  great  gen 
eral  makes  war,  and  does  not  rest  content 
with  the  laurels  of  a  single  battle.  This  par 
ticular  general  had  waged  mighty  wars  upon 
rivals  in  the  trade.  He  had  beaten  them  all. 
A  plain  man  always,  when  he  died  he  left 
his  millions  to  be  divided  between  a  son  and 
daughter.  To  his  portion  the  son  added  in 
wider  enterprises  of  finance  several  more 
millions.  He  had  expended  a  part  of  this  for 
tune  in  the  education  and  training  of  his  son. 
He  wished  to  make  of  him  a  fine  gentleman. 
It  may  be  said  that  Archibald  had  risen  fairly 
well  to  this  demand.  He  was  certainly  a 
man  of  presentable  appearance  and  manner, 
with  as  much  polish  as  the  end  of  a  century 
not  distinguished  for  amenity  permits.  If 
he  sometimes  sat  while  women  stood,  lounged 
while  they  sat,  did  not  always  uncover  his 
head  when  he  bowed  to  them,  and  never  saw 
a  woman  whose  youth  had  waned,  this  was 


26          EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

more  a  matter  of  pose  than  of  politeness. 
He  was  not  sure  enough  of  himself  to  follow 
out  the  natural  instincts  of  kindliness  which 
lay  in  his  nature,  for  if  his  was  hardly  a 
chivalrous  character  it  was  not  a  brutal  one. 
And  this  pose  —  such  as  it  was  —  good- 
humored  at  bottom,  and  not  particularly 
harmful  unless  to  himself,  had  served  him 
well.  He  was  essentially  a  favorite,  and 
above  all  he  was  a  man  of  fashion.  He  very 
rarely  did  anything  clever,  and  never  said 
anything  wise;  yet  young  girls  liked  him, 
young  married  women  invited  him,  and  his 
men  associates  called  him  a  "  good  fellow." 
He  could  boast  of  no  personal  beauty.  His 
figure  lacked  grace.  He  had  a  snub  nose, 
his  neck  was  too  short  and  thick,  his  shoul 
ders  too  high,  and  the  calves  of  his  legs  were 
thin.  He  carried  himself,  however,  with  an 
ease  that  disarmed  criticism.  He  was  him 
self  extremely  critical  of  other  people,  an 
attitude  usually  impressive. 

His  plan  of  life  was  much  less  compli 
cated  than  his  father's  or  his  grandfather's. 
It  had,  in  fact,  been  made  exceedingly  simple 
for  him.  He  decided  early  to  go  to  college, 
to  pass  with  as  little  study  as  possible,  and 
to  amuse  himself  to  his  utmost  there  and 
afterward.  Having  inherited  his  fortune 
precisely  at  the  time  it  seemed  fit  to  him  to 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART          27 

travel,  he  concluded  to  do  so.  He  decided 
he  would  live  in  Europe  for  a  few  years — see 
life — the  world — then  return  and  settle  in  his 
own  country.  He  concluded  that  the  life  of 
a  country  gentleman — for  a  large  part  of  the 
year  at  least — would  suit  him  best.  He  also 
decided  that  he  would  marry  a  handsome 
woman.  There  was  one  thing  above  all 
others  that  in  this  woman  of  his  choice  must 
be  intact,  and  that  was  the  escutcheon.  She 
must  be  a  lady.  When  he  began  to  look 
about  him,  his  eyes  rested  with  favor  almost 
immediately  upon  a  young  girl  who  had  just 
crossed  the  threshold  of  womanhood.  The 
second  time  he  saw  Lola  Fenton  he  told  him 
self  that  she  was  charming.  A  lady  she  cer 
tainly  was.  About  her  pedigree  there  could 
be  no  shadow  of  a  doubt.  She  was  on  both 
sides  of  her  house  descended  from  a  far 
nobler  and  more  ancient  ancestry  than  are 
four  fifths  of  the  members  of  the  English 
House  of  Peers.  Her  direct  American  fore 
fathers  had  been  men  distinguished  in  poli 
tics,  diplomacy,  and  letters,  and  their  women 
celebrated  for  beauty  and  elegance.  They 
had  also  for  several  generations  possessed 
sufficient  wealth  to  meet  the  exactions  of  the 
world.  She  was  the  elder  daughter  of  Mrs. 
Gardiner  Fenton,  a  widow.  From  her 
mother  she  inherited  personal  loveliness, 


28          EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

but  it  was  not  of  the  kind  which  strikes  at 
first  sight. 

The  most  difficult  subject  to  paint  is  that 
which  requires  demi-tints. 

Lola  Fenton's  beauty  was  of  extraordinary 
delicacy  and  refinement;  pensive  rather  than 
brilliant,  poetic  rather  than  positive,  there 
was  in  it  an  element  at  once  mysterious  and 
fugitive.  She  was  tall  and  thin;  her  hands 
and  feet,  her  throat,  her  waist,  were  long, 
and  so  were  her  limbs.  Her  head  was  small, 
crowned  with  fine  soft  hair  in  which  there 
was  little  color.  It  was  of  an  ashy,  dead- 
leaf  hue.  Her  forehead  was  low  and  broad, 
her  eyes  dreamy  and  gentle,  of  a  violet  gray 
outlined  by  bluish  shadows.  Her  nose  was 
small  and  tipped  upward.  Her  mouth  was 
exquisitely  tender  and  somewhat  sad.  Wide 
in  repose,  when  she  spoke  or  smiled  she  drew 
the  lips  together  and  pouted  them  out  as 
does  a  child  who  sues  for  a  kiss.  In  the 
expression  of  her  face  there  was  something 
indefinably  touching.  Her  complexion  was 
pale. 

In  spite  of  her  spirituality  of  appearance, 
Miss  Fenton  seemed  to  take  very  kindly  to 
German  cotillons,  late  balls,  routs,  dinners, 
dances,  suppers,  and  the  opera.  She  was 
everywhere  an  acknowledged  belle.  Before 
the  end  of  her  first  season  she  was  engaged 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART          29 

to  be  married  to  Archibald  Marston.  Her 
mother's  friends  entered  some  protest.  The 
butcher  was  disinterred.  This  was  a  cruelty 
to  Marston,  whose  matrimonial  venture  was 
intended  to  conclusively  sink  this  inconve 
nient  predecessor. 

"How  was  it  possible,"  they  asked,  "that 
Lola  should  so  drag  her  family  into  the  dust?" 
It  had  to  be  conceded,  however,  that  the 
dust,  such  as  it  was,  was  golden.  The  dust 
and  its  quality,  however,  had  not  been 
weighed  in  the  young  girl's  balances.  She 
was  passionately  in  love.  At  this  people 
marveled.  The  "What  can  she  see  in  him?" 
gathered  force  with  every  reiteration  until  a 
torrent  of  questions  rose  and  broke  on  the 
strand  of  social  exigence. 

This  question,  always  enigmatic,  was  as 
difficult  of  solution  as  is  the  one  which  asks 
why  one  woman  is  a  success  in  the  world 
while  another  is  distanced  in  the  race.  The 
mere  answer  that  she  possesses  social  talent 
does  not  seem  to  cover  the  ground.  Miss 
Fenton  herself  was  far  less  beautiful  than 
many  of  her  maiden  rivals.  She  was  not  a 
wit.  Never  could  it  be  said  of  any  feminine 
creature  that  she  made  less  effort.  She 
seemed  to  be  one  of  those  exceptional  beings 
who  are  born  attractive,  who  have  but  to 
cross  a  threshold  to  be  surrounded,  raise  her 


30         EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

eyes  to  be  adored.  It  was  this  very  lack  of 
aggressiveness  which  captured  Marston.  He 
was  accustomed  to  other  methods.  Mothers 
and  daughters  had  not  been  cold  to  him. 
For  though  they  might  now  in  the  hour  of 
their  disaffection  ask,  "What  can  she  see  in 
him?  "  they  had  been  fully  aware  of  the  solid 
advantages  which  he  could  offer  them. 

To  be  in  love  with  her  husband  is  not  favor 
able  to  the  career  of  a  young  matron.  It  is 
apt  to  make  her  watchful  where  blindness  is 
incumbent,  eager  where  zeal  is  out  of  place, 
and  a  sure  subject  of  raillery  to  the  heart- 
free.  It  is  possible  that  Lola  Fenton's  bark, 
when  she  became  Mrs.  Archibald  Marston, 
might  have  sunk  in  this  quicksand  had  not 
her  husband's  guiding  hand  been  at  the  helm. 
He  saw  to  it  that  their  devotion  was  not  too 
pronounced  in  public.  Her  own  reserve 
would  hardly  have  countenanced  exhibitions 
of  affection,  but  what  he  desired  was  a  clever 
and  haughty  mistress  to  his  establishment, 
not  a  love-sick  wife.  He  wanted  a  partner, 
not  to  sing  madrigals. 

In  the  first  year  of  their  marriage  she  did 
not  quite  understand.  Her  mind,  though 
thoughtful,  was  not  quick  to  meteoric  im 
pressions,  and  so  she  managed  to  be  very 
happy  with  her  husband,  in  spite  of  him. 
As  contentment  is  the  vital  atmosphere  of 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART          31 

the  soul,  she  bloomed  like  a  lily  in  the  dew. 
What  physician  is  worth  one  drop  of  joy! 
Health  cast  its  soft  flush  on  her  cheeks. 
Marriage  opened  up  life  for  her.  She  grew 
in  mind  and  heart,  and  was  transfigured.  To 
those  who  help  such  growth  in  us  we  should 
be  grateful.  Lola  was  grateful. 

When  he  took  her  to  the  splendid  home 
he  built  for  her  in  the  country,  her  cup 
seemed  indeed  brimful  of  pleasure.  She 
loved  nature.  She  loved  the  moonlit  fields, 
the  breath  of  flowers  under  wet  leaves,  the 
crisp  odors  of  the  sea  at  ebb-tide,  and  to  her 
love  for  her  lover  were  now  added  all  these 
beautiful  things.  It  was  only  the  over-bub 
bling  of  this  inward  content  which  she  gave 
to  the  world.  Her  husband  supplied  her  de 
ficiencies.  It  was  he  who  superintended  her 
list  and  scratched  out  and  erased  undesira 
ble  names.  It  was  he  who  organized  the 
house,  ordered  the  dinners,  and  it  was  even  he 
who  superintended  some  of  the  subtle  details 
of  his  wife's  toilettes.  She  thanked  him 
without  many  words,  pouting  out  her  lips 
and  smiling  at  him  from  out  of  her  deep 
eyes.  He  had  known  a  few  passions  of 
straw,  and  they  had  blazed  up  and  dried  his 
heart — a  little — but  it  was,  as  hearts  go, 
fairly  juicy  still.  Not  imaginative,  not  given 
to  overmuch  emotion,  he  had,  like  many 


32          EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

men,  sought  the  stimulus  of  sensation.  If 
his  disillusions  were  less  violent  than  those 
of  men  of  imagination,  they  were  at  least  suf 
ficiently  succinct  to  make  him  appreciate  the 
companionship  of  his  exquisite  young  wife. 
He  was  glad  to  settle  down,  for  he  was  by 
nature  fond  of  order.  His  tastes  were  re 
spectable.  He  was  honorable  in  money  mat 
ters.  He  had  the  horror  of  debt  and  of 
confusion  of  the  man  who  has  always  been 
sure  of  his  meals  and  whose  debts  have  al 
ways  been  paid  for  him. 

Not  being  in  active  affairs — an  agent  had 
the  supervision  of  his  vast  estates — he  could 
give  his  wife  not  only  the  fidelity  which  he 
had  sworn  —  he  respected  the  oath  —  but, 
what  is  more  unusual  in  America,  a  consid 
erable  portion  of  his  time.  And  here,  after 
the  early  months  of  nuptial  gayeties,  house- 
warmings  and  bridal  dances,  the  first  little 
cloud  appeared  on  the  conjugal  horizon. 
Mrs.  Marston,  in  apportioning  the  seasons, 
planned  for  an  occasional  solitude  a  deux. 
She  quickly  found  that  this  was  to  be  de 
nied;  for  while  her  desire  for  society  was 
spasmodic  and  intermittent,  her  husband's 
seemed  to  be  permanent.  He  was  always 
inviting  guests,  and  when  she  had  organized 
a  dainty  feast  for  two,  three  or  four  were 
sure  to  enjoy  it,  through  Mr.  Marston's  in- 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART          33 

terference.  He  seemed  never  tired  of  the 
evident  admiration  which  she  inspired;  how 
then  could  she  be  ungracious?  Between 
Lola  and  her  husband  there  was  fortunately 
none  of  that  acute  temperamental  antagonism 
which  is  probably  physical,  and  from  which 
spring  unjustifiable  hatreds.  So  she  would 
heave  a  little  sigh  and  hope  that  the  next  time 
nobody  would  come.  Of  a  romantic  fancy, 
Lola  shrank  from  garish  light.  She  some 
times  wanted  shadow.  She  wanted  a  lover 
who  should  lie  at  her  feet,  read  to  her  from 
the  poets,  now  and  then  just  brushing  with 
his  lips  her  hand.  Her  hopes  had  held  all 
the  loveliest  imaginations  of  the  things  we 
dream.  Trodden  paths,  which  her  husband 
adored,  looked  to  her  a  trifle  worn.  She 
told  herself  that  these  fantoches  of  the  mind 
must  be  brushed  aside  like  cobwebs,  since 
they  were  in  the  way.  Her  husband  laughed, 
called  her  romantic,  and  kissed  her  with  a 
light  jest.  She  took  the  kiss,  which  warmed 
her  heart — in  spite  of  all  it  was  growing  a 
little  chill — and  told  herself  with  a  faint  sigh 
that  her  dreams  had  been  but  the  radiant 
aurora  of  all  early  youth.  In  a  few  years 
she  had  sacrificed  her  hopes,  she  had  resigned 
herself  to  be  forever  before  the  footlights. 
The  desire  for  a  more  intellectual  comrade 
ship  became  fainter  as  the  weariness  of  the 


34         EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

crowd's  encroachments  increased.  It  was 
certainly  a  very  exclusive  crowd,  elegant  and 
esthetically  satisfactory,  if  not  quite  conge 
nial.  As  is  often  the  case,  the  inferior  nature 
had  vanquished.  Marston  remained  master 
of  the  field.  He  certainly  had  taste.  It  was 
exemplified  by  the  selections  he  made  during 
their  short  trips  across  the  Atlantic,  of  paint 
ings,  statuary,  rare  tapestries,  porcelains,  and 
furniture  for  their  city  and  country  homes. 
These  were  marvels.  Lola  did  not  cease  to 
vaunt  her  husband's  artistic  perceptions. 
Sometimes  indeed,  when  not  otherwise  en 
gaged,  Mr.  Marston  discoursed  on  art.  He 
pooh-poohed  the  moderns.  Paris!  phew!  a 
millinery  shop!  Rome!  there  was  the  school 
to  which  all  art  must  turn;  from  the  men 
who  build  and  decorate  to  those  who  paint 
and  chisel,  from  the  men  who  mould  soft  pot 
teries  to  those  who  chink  hard  metals.  With 
out  Italy's  suggestions  where  would  David 
have  drawn  the  classic  impulse  with  which 
he  conquered  France,  or  Asmus  Carstens 
that  which  made  him  father  of  German  art? 
He  discoursed  wisely  on  Rome's  architecture; 
of  the  use  of  columns  in  front  of  closed  walls, 
of  the  construction  of  domes  above  circular 
interiors,  dwelt  on  cylindrical  and  groined 
vaultings.  He  spoke  of  early  Christian  in 
fluence,  and  of  Byzantine  outgrowths;  of 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART          35 

forensic  basilica,  of  cancelli,  of  ambones. 
He  dwelt  on  Bondone  and  Bramante,  and 
sighed  that  the  giants  were  all  dead!  He 
flagellated Correggio,  called  him  "a  modern," 
"  unrefined,"  "lacking  in  repose."  He  patted 
Paolo  Caliari  on  the  back,  approving  of  his 
spirit  and  his  richness.  He  chattered  of  the 
Greeks;  Polycletus,  Myron,  Alcamanes  — 
"Give  me  the  lofty,"  he  would  say,  "  I  don't 
want  the  pretty."  Then  he  would  descant 
on  the  portrait  busts  in  terra-cotta  of  the 
Gregorian  collection,  of  the  painted  vases  of 
Etruria;  marveling  at  fools  who  did  not  know 
that  those  representing  black  figures  on  a  red 
ground  are  of  a  greater  antiquity  than  those 
which  reverse  these  colors.  When  their  host 
mounted  this  art  horse,  I  regret  to  state  that 
his  audience  was  usually  stifling  yawns,  while 
his  wife,  with  eyes  that  begged  approval, 
nodded,  with  faint  smiles  and  dovelike  coo- 
ings,  her  rapturous  admiration.  Wrapped 
in  absorbed  attention,  "See,"  she  would  seem 
to  say,  "what  a  man  I  married!"  The  fact 
is  that  what  Marston  knew  of  art  was  of  the 
crudest  and  most  superficial. 

His  old  nurse — a  privileged  person  who 
now  presided  over  the  nursery — was  of  this 
opinion. 

"  Laws!  he  "s  brought  in  more  chucks,"  she 
would  say  to  Lola  irreverently. 


36          EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

"Why,  Nursey,  this  is  the  'Flight  into 
Egypt,'"  Mrs.  Marston  had  once  said  to  her, 
exhibiting  a  pre-Raphaelesque  portrayal  of 
the  sacred  journey,  "and  you  call  that 
chucks?" 

"Egypt!  Well,  it  ain't  a  bit  like  it  then," 
said  Nursey,  who  was  a  traveled  person. 
"I  guess  he  got  cheated,  poor  dear,  and 
it  ain't  the  first  time  neither,  he  's  that  guile 
less." 

"  Maybe  they  had  n't  got  there  yet,"  said 
Lola,  examining  the  picture  anxiously. 

As  years  went  by,  Lola  noticed  that  her 
husband's  artistic  harangue  was  always  the 
same,  that  he  did  not  expand  his  learning 
or  teach  anything  fresh  to  his  hearers;  but 
she  continued  to  gurgle  and  nod  and  en 
courage.  Perhaps  eye,  speech,  gesture,  ad 
here  to  custom  longer  and  more  tenaciously 
than  the  mind,  and  are  more  lenient  to  rou 
tine. 

Of  the  contents  of  his  establishments  it 
must  be  said  they  resembled  somewhat  the 
collection  of  an  art  salesman.  When  he  had 
brought  all  these  things  home  he  had  little 
genius  at  their  disposition.  His  houses  were 
like  great  museums  through  which  his  wife 
walked  with  a  slight  sense  of  oppression. 
She  did  not  feel  entirely  at  home  in  them. 
There  was  so  much! 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART          37 

Marston  secretly  regretted  that  his  wife 
did  not  lend  herself  more  absolutely  to  his 
views  of  existence,  but  consoled  himself  by 
the  reflection  that  the  slight  languor  that  she 
brought  to  her  duties  of  hostess  was  essen 
tially  "good  form."  It  seemed  to  distance 
and  detach  her  from  other  and  more  eager 
women.  Unappreciated  qualities  sometimes 
please  by  their  reflex  action.  He  forgave 
her,  therefore,  and  thought,  upon  the  whole, 
he  could  not  have  done  better.  Forgave 
her  that  she  had  discarded  the  trained  nurses 
into  the  antechamber,  and  had  herself 
guarded  their  only  son — born  in  the  second 
year  of  wedlock — when  he  lay  ill  with  scar 
let  fever,  thus  endangering  her  own  health 
and  beauty.  Forgave  her  that  she  would 
not  leave  his  own,  her  husband's  bedside 
when  he  had  broken  his  collar-bone  in  a  fall 
from  his  horse.  The  little  son,  Archibald, 
Jr.,  had  his  mother's  small  ears,  long  fingers, 
slight  ankles  and  wrists.  In  him  the  butcher 
seemed  to  be  effectually  eradicated,  for  which 
Marston  was  very  thankful  to  his  wife.  The 
butcher,  indeed,  was  more  and  more  forgot 
ten,  or  only  very  rarely  brought  to  life  in  the 
columns  of  some  insectivorous  sheet,  whose 
sting  was  hurriedly  torn  off  and  thrown  into 
the  grate  lest  "the  servants"  should  get  hold 
of  it. 


38          EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

This  was  the  married  pair  whom  Mrs. 
Bush  had  followed  in  the  records  of  social- 
activities  with  such  unceasing  interest. 
They  were,  in  fact,  conspicuous  and  greatly 
envied. 


CHAPTER  IV 

"  I  am  glad  to  get  home  to  America," 
said  Mrs.  Ayrault,  leaning  back  and  survey 
ing  the  table  with  a  satisfied  inspection; 
"how  nicely  dear  Lola  does  things!"  she 
added,  sotto  voce. 

Hospitality  is  a  perfume.  That  of  the 
powerful  a  quintessence  to  those  who  are  its 
beneficiaries.  Vanity  is  caressed. 

"  They  tell  me  it 's  Marston  does  it  all, 
and  that  Madame  only  sits  up  here  looking 
her  best.  I  fancied  you  '  smart '  women," 
said  Mr.  Isham,  whom  Arden  Ayrault  had 
addressed,  "  thought  it  the  proper  thing  to 
decry  your  own  country." 

"  Pshaw!  "  said  his  handsome  neighbor. 

"  I  'm  sick  of  the  Continent,"  said  Mr. 
Isham,  "  the  Latins  fatigue  me.  They  are 
too  excessive.  They  are  violent,  yet  with 
out  impulse.  They  do  not  harbor  force  in 
love  or  friendship.  This  explains  their  in 
fidelities." 

"  I  understand  you,"  said  Mrs.  Ayrault. 
"  Hearts  are  weak,  or  is  it  nerves  ?  They 

39 


40          EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

cannot  resist  or  meet  this  exhaustless  de 
mand." 

"  I  will  say  for  the  French  " — Mr.  Isham 
helped  himself  to  a  pickle — "  that  family  ties 
are  strong  with  them." 

"  The  natural  ones,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Ay- 
rault.  "Where  marriage  is  an  affair  of  busi 
ness  and  le  man  an  enemy  to  be  deceived  or 
cajoled,  a  girl's  mother  remains  her  best  pro 
tector." 

"  Then  we  Anglo-Saxons  have  a  sense  of 
justice  even  in  our  gossip.  I  'm  weary  of 
the  personal  '  persiflage '  of  foreign  high 
life  which  slays  the  character  as  if  it  were  a 
gnat.  I  'm  descended  from  Puritans  and  am 
conscientious." 

"Well,  the  English  are  heavy  enough," 
said  Mrs.  Ayrault,  "  and  occasionally  in 
earnest.  Why  don't  you  try  them?  " 

Mr.  Isham  blew  his  nose  very  loudly  and 
coughed.  He  was  a  victim  to  chronic  bron 
chitis.  At  least  so  he  told  his  friends. 

"The  trouble  with  our  cousins  is  that  they 
are  too  commercial.  They  always  want  to 
sell  you  something.  When  I  stayed  with 
Lady  Stockton,  Sir  John  had  a  litter  of  pup 
pies  he  wished  me  to  purchase.  I  explained 
to  him  how  inconvenient  it  would  be  to  carry 
puppies  about  in  traveling.  .  .  ." 

Mrs.  Ayrault  laughed. 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART          41 

"  Yes,  I  remember  Brownlow,  Muriel 
Hatch's  husband,  the  Earl,  you  know,  actu 
ally  made  me  buy  a  saddle-horse  which  his 
sister  wanted  to  get  rid  of,  before  I  left  Drogo 
Towers." 

"I  thought,"  said  Mr.  Isham,  "you  had 
larger  powers  of  self-defense." 

"When  a  British  eye  is  fastened  on  an 
American  ducat,  who  shall  be  safe?" 

"  I  confess  I  like  their  phlegm,"  said  Mr. 
Isham;  "the  result,  no  doubt,  of  the  con 
stant  exercise  of  the  muscular  system.  Gar 
rulity  is  unusual  in  England,  even  in  age. 
The  nervous  forces  are  otherwise  expended." 

"  Does  not  the  work  of  the  brain  in  artis 
tic  pursuits  such  as  yours  use  up  the  energies 
beneficially?  "  asked  Arden. 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Isham;  "nothing  but 
body  movement  cures  nervousness,  curbs  the 
tongue,  and  sweetens  the  temper." 

"  But  what  satisfaction  you  must  have!  " 
exclaimed  the  lady,  bending  toward  the 
great  artist. 

"  The  desire  for  fame  is  doubtless  the  un 
acknowledged  hunger  of  all  humanity  after 
the  eternal — the  immortal — but  it  is  only 
won  through  degrading  processes." 

"  Degrading?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  in  a  measure.  To  curry  favor 
with  the  public  has  always  in  it  a  note  of 


42          EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

baseness.  They  buy,  we.  produce;  a  mere 
trade  after  all.  They  criticise,  we  shudder, 
hide  it  as  we  will.  The  performer  is  always 
an  inferior  to  his  auditor.  Genius  is  the 
fool's  slave.  The  fool  sits  safe.  He  has 
paid  his  way.  He  sits  in  his  box  with  his 
Philistine  smirk  on  while  the  poor  actor 
sweats  and  trembles." 

"  Dear  me! "  said  Mrs.  Marston,  their  fair 
hostess,  "  dear  me!  How  wildly  interesting 
you  two  people  are.  Hush,  Tad!  Don't 
talk  nonsense  to  me  any  more,  I  wish  to 
hear  what 's  going  on  at  my  right." 

"  Can  't  I  listen  too?  "  lisped  Tad  Nailer, 
with  his  vacant  eye  turned  toward  the  bald 
spot  above  Mr.  Isham's  brow. 

The  great  artist  often  came  down  for  a 
day  or  two  to  Marston  Terrace.  It  was 
almost  the  only  visit  he  ever  paid.  He  had 
the  reputation  of  being  something  of  an 
ogre,  inaccessible  and  sauvage ;  but  he  ad 
mired  Mrs.  Marston  and  the  pecularities  of 
this  menage  interested  and  amused  him.  He 
also  thought  their  chef  made  an  excellent 
bouillabaise. 

"  The  tip  end  of  her  little  white  finger  is 
worth  a  hundred  big  hulks  like  his,"  he 
thought;  "  yet  he  plays  Sir  Oracle,  and  she 
looks  up — delicious!  delicious!  "  and  as  a 
keen  student  of  human  physiognomies  and 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART          43 

human  weaknesses  Mr.  Isham  always  re 
turned  to  the  entertainment  with  renewed 
gusto. 

"  How  you  must  study  faces,"  said  Mrs. 
Marston  to  him,  "  to  catch  and  fix  as  you  do 
fleeting  and  ephemeral  expression!  If  an 
ugly  woman  comes  to  you,  do  you  ever  re 
fuse  to  paint  her?  " 

"  It  is  astonishing,"  said  Mr.  Isham,  "  how 
a  word  of  commendation  will  efface  ugliness. 
We  are  ugly  because  we  are  evil-minded, 
morose,  or  unhappy.  Flatter  her  a  little, 
and  behold  she  is  pretty?  " 

"When  you  did  my  portrait,"  said  Arden 
Ayrault,  "you  certainly  did  not  flatter  me!  " 

"You  are  vain  enough  already!" 

"  I  like  that!  " 

"  Of  course  you  like  it,"  said  the  Count  de 
Beaumont,  who  was  sitting  at  Mrs.  Ayrault's 
other  shoulder;  "  women  wish  to  be  thought 
vain." 

"  Are  we  all  alike,  then?  " 

"  Everybody  looks  alike  to  the  ordinary 
observer,"  said  Mr.  Isham;  "  that  is  why  life 
is  so  much  richer  to  clever  people.  It  takes 
original  minds  to  see  originality.  The  pano 
rama  is  indistinct  to  the  triflers.  That  is  why 
brilliant  intellect  recognizes  worth  in  simple 
persons  whom  the  imbeciles  only  despise 
and  trample  upon.  I  once  heard  a  silly  girl 


44          EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

say  to  Mrs.  Jack  Gresham  that  she  had  just 
read  a  story  whose  heroine  was  such  a  fasci 
nating  woman!  '  But  they  are  only  attractive 
like  that  in  books,'  said  she,  simpering,  while 
the  arch-syren  she  was  addressing  passed 
on." 

"You  ought  to  have  married  a  woman  like 
the  fair  Constance,  Isham,"  said  Mr.  Marston, 
not  without  a  point  of  malice,  "  and  given  us 
the  spectacle  of  two  meteors  twirling  to 
gether  in  a  whirl  of  astral  space." 

"We  artists  cannot  give  ourselves  such 
luxuries.  Love  a  la  Constance  is  expensive." 

"Artists  are  proverbially  fickle,"  said  Mrs. 
Marston.  "They  don't  like  to  say  'for 
ever.'" 

"  It 's  sometimes  easier  to  say  '  forever  ' 
than  '  to-morrow,'  "  said  Mr.  Isham,  with  his 
quaint  humorous  laugh,  "  particularly  when 
one's  bank  account  is  low." 

"  So,  Sir  Lemuel,  you  lost  your  happiness 
for  glory?  " 

"  Too  few  people,  my  dear  Marston,  know 
happiness  to  be  said  to  have  lost  it.  At  best 
they  lose  a  hope  or  a  habit.  My  wife  would 
have  made  me  content,  and  herself  too,  pos 
sibly,  if  she  had  never  asked  me,  '  Do  you 
still  love  me?'  If  a  woman  asked  me  that 
exasperating  question  I  should  be  hateful 
enough  to  think  'Do  I?' — a  propensity 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART          45 

which  springs  from  my  New  England  par 
entage." 

"  I  think  you  would  make  just  the  nicest 
kind  of  a  husband  in  spite  of  your  analytical 
propensities,"  said  Mrs.  Marston.  "  I  shall 
take  you  for  my  second.  As  Archibald  is 
pretty  healthy,  I  shall  be  fat  and  middle- 
aged,  but  I  shall  never  doubt  the  affection  I 
inspire." 

"  Modern  women  have  suppressed  middle 
age,"  said  Mr.  Atherton,  a  widower,  a  man 
of  the  world,  always  a  favorite  in  drawing- 
rooms.  "Show  me  a  middle-aged  woman 
to-day.  There  are  none." 

"You  see  them  still  in  the  provinces," 
said  Mrs.  Plunkett,  drawing  her  eyes  away 
for  one  brief  moment  from  the  enraptured 
observation  of  her  beautiful  daughter,  oppo 
site.  "  You  see  them  still  in  the  provinces." 
She  spoke  as  if  alluding  to  some  extinct  bird 
whose  claw-prints  an  ancient  boulder  might 
inconveniently  have  kept. 

"  Mrs.  Gresham  is  artificial,"  Count  de 
Beaumont  was  saying. 

"That  is  why  I  like  her,"  said  Mrs.  Ayrault. 
"  I  hate  simple  people." 

"  O,  eccentric  people  amuse  the  outsiders, 
but  are  never  popular  in  their  own  family," 
said  Mrs.  Maury;  "the  conservative  quali 
ties  are  better  for  every  day." 


46          EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

"Artists  should  eschew  the  happy  mar 
riage.  If  properly  understood  and  at  peace, 
talent  rarely  develops  to  its  utmost.  It  needs 
a  little  wholesome  damming  to  produce  the 
torrent,"  said  Mr.  Atherton. 

"And  the  unfinished  is  nothing,"  said  Mr. 
Isham  reflectively. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Mrs.  Ayrault,  "there 
are  worse  things  than  an  unhappy  marriage." 
Her  own  had  been  unfortunate.  She  was 
separated  from  her  husband.  "  But  there 
are  moments  when  one  thinks  not." 

"  From  what  are  called  ruined  lives  spring 
charm  and  power,"  said  Mr.  Isham.  "We 
are  all  condemned  to  suffer  and  die.  What 
matter  an  hour  sooner  or  later?  " 

"  Dear  me,  how  dismal  we  are  getting!  " 
said  Mrs.  Marston. 

"That  is  the  trouble  with  discussing  life 
seriously,"  said  Mrs.  Plunkett.  "  One  always 
gets  dismal.  But  tell  us  about  physiognomy, 
figure,  gesture,  Mr.  Isham.  Can  you  read 
character  through  these?  " 

"There's  a  good  deal  in  it.  There  are 
types,  of  course.  A  man  with  large  lips  is 
usually  false.  A  woman  with  full  lips,  ten 
der.  The  big-headed,  short-legged  people, 
so  detestable  from  the  artistic  standpoint, 
sometimes  rule  the  world." 

"  Have  patriots  any  particular  aspect?  " 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART          47 

"  They  are  often  commonplace  in  appear 
ance,  because  they  are  rarely  idealists.  They 
are  men  of  action,  never  philosophers.  These 
last,  the  humanitarians,  waste  time  in 
dreams." 

"  What 's  that,  Isham?  Discussing  social 
ism,  eh?"  Mr.  Marston  raised  his  voice. 

"  Nothing  was  further  from  my  thought." 
With  another  dry  cough.  "  Plague  on  this 
bronchitis  of  mine!  " 

"  You  have  a  cold?  "  asked  Mrs.  Plunkett. 

"Chronic — thanks,  no,  no  more  wine." 
This  to  an  elderly  and  distinguished  lawyer 
who  had  several  times  pushed  the  Madeira 
across  the  tablecloth  with  the  deprecatory 
self-conscious  attitude  of  the  senior  Ameri 
can  who  takes  his  pleasures  as  if  he  would 
say,  "  Here  we  are,  my.  boys — wine,  women, 
and  song!  Let's  be  merry  while  we  may! 
Monday  is  n't  here  yet!  " 

"  I  'm  conservative,"  said  Marston.  "  I  'm 
down  on  all  talk  of  progress,  petticoats,  an 
archism  and  incendiarism,  women's  suffrage, 
and  labor  emancipation.  As  for  the  social 
ists,  I  'd  hang  them  all — every  damned  cur 
of  them!" 

Mr.  Isham  coughed  persistently  for  two 
minutes. 

"  Don't  you  think,  Mr.  Marston,  when 
more  avenues  are  open  to  women,  they  will 


48         EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

renounce  vice,  men  will  have  fewer  expenses, 
marriages  will  be  more  frequent?  "  said  Mrs. 
Maury,  one  of  the  guests. 

"  Would  les  cigales  go  to  work?  "  said  Ath- 
erton.  "That  "s  the  question." 

"  All  women  are  born  angels,"  said  young 
Tad  Nailer,  blushing  a  bright  scarlet.  "  It 's 
us  men  who  make  them  wicked! " 

Mr.  Isham  looked  at  the  speaker  over  his 
spectacles  from  under  bushy  eyebrows,  with 
a  glance  half  contemptuous,  half  approving. 
He  drew  in  his  breath  with  a  short,  wheezy 
sound. 

"  That 's  a  good  boy!  "  said  Mrs.  Marston, 
patting  Tad's  hand. 

"  Don't  you  think,  Marston,"  said  Ather- 
ton,  "that  we  are  ignorant  of  the  laws  which 
underlie  the  processes  of  evolution,  and  that 
much  as  you  and  I  may  deprecate  changes 
palpably  to  our  disadvantage,  nevertheless 
change  is  inevitable?"  He  looked  around 
as  he  spoke,  at  the  magnificence  of  the 
dining-room  which  the  ancestral  butcher 
had  furnished. 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  that,"  said 
Marston,  fuming;  "  er — my — ancestors  .  .  . 
were — er  .  .  .  self-made  .  .  .  yes,  self-made. 
I  'm  not  ashamed  to  own  it." 

His  wife  raised  her  lovely  eyes  to  the 
ceiling.  Now  she  knew  he  was  faultless. 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART          49 

She  prayed  God  to  forgive  her  for  having 
once,  yes,  once,  feared  her  beloved  was  just  a 
wee  wee  bit  of  a  snob,  and  for  having  agon 
ized  over  it.  No  doubt  at  the  time  her  liver 
must  have  been  disordered.  Such  injustice 
could  have  but  one  explanation — the  bilious 
one. 

The  Madeira  was  in  Marston's  veins,  and 
in  his  wine  he  was  an  honest  man.  "  Why 
should  others  rob  me  of  the  results  of  their 
industry  and  wisdom?  "  he  said,  glaring. 

Mr.  Isham  again  blew  his  nose. 

"Our  forefathers,"  said  Atherton,  "were 
robust  men,  with  a  sense  of  duty  and  respon 
sibility.  We  who  profit  by  their  labors  are 
watched  sullenly,  but  need  have  no  fears  if 
we  emulate  these  qualities." 

"  Not  at  all,  not  at  all!  "  said  Mr.  Marston. 
"  I  don't  agree  with  you.  It  is  the  best  men 
they  wish  to  destroy;  not  the  mean  ones  who 
let  their  wealth  roll  up  while  the  poor  starve; 
but  the  lavish,  who  scatter,  are  benefactors, 
and  are  therefore  conspicuous." 

"  Deny  the  socialists  as  you  will,"  said 
Mr.  Atherton,  "  there  are  men  among  them 
who  think  and  feel  intensely.  For  this  I 
respect  them." 

"  Mere  rhapsodies!  "  said  Marston. 

"  Don't  you  think,"  whispered  Mrs.  Mar 
ston  to  Mr.  Isham,  "that  it 's  often  the  best 


50         EAT  NOT  THY   HEART 

part  of  people  which  makes  them  con 
servative?  Archie  is  so  good  to  the  poor! 
You  don't  know  all  he  does!  Nobody 
knows!  " 

"  You  see,  my  dear  Mrs.  Marston,  what 
the  masses  ask  for  now  is  not  alms,  but 
opportunity." 

"  And  has  n't  everybody  opportunity  in 
our  country?  "  asked  the  host,  catching  his 
guest's  remark  on  the  wing. 

"  No!  "  bawled  Mr.  Isham. 

"There  must  be  selection,"  said  Mr.  Ather- 
ton.  "  How  are  you  going  to  clutch  the 
strongest  and  keep  him  down?" 

"  In  the  development  of  Western  civiliza 
tion  our  altruistic  feeling  will  soon  teach  us," 
answered  Mr.  Isham.  "As  a  great  writer 
has  lately  told  us,  the  very  citadel  is  leagued 
with  its  besiegers.  Intellect  and  reason,  which 
are  other  words  for  individualism — every 
man  for  himself — are  always  selfish,  and 
must  be  controlled  by  the  extraordinary 
ethical  movement  which  is  the  outgrowth  of 
all  great  religious  teaching.  All  excluded 
people  will  be  brought  into  a  wholesome 
rivalry  of  life.  Even  the  broken-winded  will 
have  room  to  breathe,  only  we  must  not  be 
impatient.  The  process  of  creation,  which 
is  still  going  on,  is  slow." 

14 1  am  glad  I  have  no  convictions,  and  can 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART         51 

hold  my  peace.  It  is  all  so  bewildering," 
sighed  Mrs.  Ayrault. 

"  So  was  the  French  Revolution  to  onlook 
ers,  Mrs.  Ayrault;  so  was  the  emancipation 
of  the  slave  to  his  owner.  I  must  say,"  said 
Mr.  Isham,  "the  nigger  has  cost  us  a  great 
deal.  It  was  a  good  turn  which  was  done 
him  when  he  was  brought  over  from  Africa. 
He  improved  immensely  over  here.  One 
almost  envies  an  autocracy  when  one  sees 
how  the  Czar  freed  the  serf  with  a  stroke  of 
the  pen,  while  we  shed  and  expended,  in  our 
republic,  oceans  of  blood  and  bagsful  of 
money." 

"  But  you  surely  thought  slavery  quite 
dreadful?"  said  Mrs.  Plunkett. 

"  Of  course  it 's  dreadful,  madam.  It 's 
dreadful  to  come  into  life  and  find  yourself 
at  the  foot  of  the  ladder  with  all  the  best 
positions  out  of  your  reach  and  already 
filled.  The  laws  of  the  universe,  as  we 
regard  them  with  our  limited  vision,  are  not 
calculated  to  make  us  very  comfortable." 

"  Refined  epicureanism  is  always  the  ac 
companiment  of  thoughtless  wealth  and 
power,"  said  Mr.  Atherton,  who  himself  had 
a  decided  distaste  for  what  he  called  the 
"  common  people,"  "  and  makes  us  cruel." 

"That  is  coming  right,  all  the  same," 
said  Mr.  Isham.  "  Our  evolution,  it  seems, 


52          EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

must  be  very  gradual.  A  slow,  organic 
growth  with  a  life-history  at  its  back.  Units 
have  always  been  sacrificed.  The  cruelty 
remains  and  has  to  be  swallowed.  Let  the 
poor  devils  take  what  comfort  they  can  from 
the  patience  the  priests  preach  to  them. 
The  French,  where  they  have  discarded 
such  teaching,  have  presented  a  sorry  spec 
tacle.  O,  I  don't  find  fault  with  them  in 
idea,  a  wonderful  people;  but  this  restrain 
ing  force  they  need,  or  else  it  is  not  others 
they  destroy,  but  themselves.  Christianity 
knew  what  it  was  about  when  it  preached 
the  beyond.  Slowly  but  surely  the  liberal 
views  are  encroaching,  advancing,  conquer 
ing — a  mere  question  of  time.  Slaves  are 
free.  Men  have  grown  sensitive  to  wrong. 
My  friend,  Marston,  here,  who  talks  of 
stringing  up  anarchists,  would  not  hurt  a  fly." 

Mrs.  Marston  smiled,  radiant. 

"  I  saw  him  spend  a  half-hour  yesterday 
picking  a  splinter  out  of  his  shepherd's  hand. 
He  was  very  gentle  with  the  lad.  He  is  not 
half  bad-hearted." 

Marston  laughed  a  little  shamefacedly. 

"  In  England  day  by  day  we  see  the  ad 
vance  of  democracy,  a  democracy  born  of 
kindness  on  one  side,  as  well  as  discontent 
on  the  other.  The  conservative's  is  a  forlorn 
hope.  They  are  practically  but  the  puppets 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART          53 

of  blind  destiny,  which  stays  their  hand  when 
it  sees  fit.  Soon  the  hours  of  labor  will  be 
shortened;  higher  education  will  be  more 
generally  attainable;  capitalists  will  give  the 
surplus  of  their  means  to  enterprises  which 
will  benefit  the  workingman,  and,  Marston  " 
— he  leaned  over  the  table  an'd  fixed  his 
host  with  his  piercing  eyes — "  the  ladies  will 
have  the  ballot,  and  rule  us  more  effectually 
than  they  do  to-day." 

"Here's  to  the  success  of  your  millen 
nium!  "  cried  Mr.  Atherton,  raising  his  glass. 
"I  wish  I  was  convinced." 

"You  said  religion  had  taught  us  so  much. 
You  are  from  Boston,  are  you  not,  Mr. 
Isham?"  said  Mrs.  Plunkett.  "I  presume 
you  are  a  Unitarian." 

"Do  I  look  like  a  Unitarian,  madam?" 

"Why,  how  do  they  look?"  asked  Mrs. 
Plunkett.  "  Have  they  any  distinctive  mark 
on  them?  I  know  so  many  nice  Unitarians." 

"  They  look  complacent,  madam,  as  be 
hooves  men  who  have  robbed  the  Lord  Jesus 
Christ  of  his  divinity." 

"O,  dear  me!"  said  Mrs.  Plunkett,  some 
what  agitated,  "perhaps  you  are  a  Presby 
terian?" 

"  I  shall  certainly  not  quarrel  with  my 
Presbyterian  friends,"  said  Mr.  Isham. 
"  They  live  in  such  material  smugness,  and 


54          EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

give  such  excellent  dinners!  They  assure  me 
that  this  result  of  luxury  springs  from  their 
scrupulous  observance  of  the  Sabbath.  What 
do  you  think  about  it,  madam?  " 

Mrs.  Plunkett  found  that  Mr.  Lemuel 
Isham,  of  whom  she  had  heard  so  much, 
made  her  a  little  uneasy,  as  we  feel  in  the 
society  of  those  we  secretly  suspect  of  laugh 
ing  at  us;  yet  nothing  could  be  more  im 
penetrable  than  his  face,  which  was  at  once 
grave  and  respectful. 

"  While  Isham  delivers  himself  of  his 
theories,"  said  Mr.  Marston,  "  I  vote  we 
adjourn  to  the  smoking-room.  Here,  Fran 
cois,  bring  us  lights." 

The  men  adjourned  to  the  tabagie,  the 
ladies  to  the  library,  where  the  three  mas 
tiffs  and  little  Archie's  collie  were  warming 
their  noses  before  a  wood  fire. 

"  Bush,  the  new  gardener,  arrived  this 
afternoon,  and  desires  to  see  Monsieur,"  said 
Francois,  the  maitrc  d 'hotel. 

"Ah,  the  new  farmer,"  his  master  cor 
rected  him.  "  Tell  him  to  wait  for  me  a 
moment  on  the  porch.  I  '11  be  there  in  a 
minute.  I  wish  to  say  a  word  to  him." 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  he  found  Bush 
awaiting  him,  hat  in  hand.  Mrs.  Marston 
also  came  out  and  joined  her  husband 
under  the  stars.  She  and  Joe  Bush  looked 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART         55 

at  each  other.  That  first  glance  made  them 
allies. 

"  What  good  eyes  he  has,"  she  said  to  her 
husband  afterward. 

"  Did  she  say  anything  about  me?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Bush  when  Joe  had  walked  back  to  the 
cottage.  She  was  still  dressed  in  her  travel 
ing-cloak,  finishing  her  supper  with  that 
feeling  of  strangeness  and  lost  leverage  born 
of  arrival  in  a  new  home. 

"  I  guess  she  had  comp'ny.  I  guess  she 
was  busy,"  said  Joe  evasively.  "  No,  she 
only  stayed  out  a  half-minute." 

"  Is  she  such  a  beauty?" 

"  Well,  no,  now,  I  should  n't  say  she  was 
a  beauty.  She  's  got  a  sweet-lookin'  face." 

Beth  rose  with  a  vague  sense  of  disap 
pointment. 


CHAPTER  V 

BETH,  who  had  a  natural  aptitude  at  com 
mand,  found  that  the  first  days  of  her  in 
stallation  flattered  this  pronounced  inclina 
tion.  It  was  not  only  agreeable  to  be  the 
mistress  of  a  cozy  and  comfortable  retreat, 
vine-embowered,  freshly  painted,  crisply 
cleanly,  with  its  porch  on  which  Dottie 
might  play — she  found  a  distinctively  suave 
flavor  in  being  addressed  as  "  ma'am  "  by 
the  three  dairy  girls.  The  farm-hands,  who 
were  to  be  given  meals  at  the  cottage,  were 
even  more  obsequious.  They  doffed  their 
hats  when  she  came  out  to  wring  and  hang 
a  scrub-cloth  on  the  line  which  stretched  its 
wires  under  the  locusts  behind  the  house. 
They  called  her  Madam  Bush,  and  wiped 
their  feet  on  her  door-mat  when  they  crossed 
the  threshold,  with  exemplary  considerate- 
ness.  She  had  entered  precincts  where 
order  and  law  reigned,  where  there  were 
some  traditions  of  inequality.  Such  had 
scarcely  existed  upon  the  soil  from  which 
she  had  sprung.  Josh,  their  chore-boy  at 

56 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART          57 

Pontifex,  was  a  second  cousin  of  her  hus 
band's.  He  never  wiped  his  feet.  When 
his  work  was  over  he  came  into  the  kitchen 
and  ate  and  talked  with  the  family.  Now 
she  found  that  she  was  not  expected  to  sit 
at  meat  with  the  laborers  and  milk-girls,  and 
was  only  to  oversee  their  repasts  from  the 
vantage-ground  of  landlady.  The  maids 
took  turns  in  waiting  upon  the  table,  and 
washed  up  the  dishes  when  all  was  done. 
They  slept  in  an  adjoining  cottage,  which  a 
stout,  red-cheeked  Irishwoman  presided  over. 

"The  big  house,"  whose  classic  outline 
she  could  barely  define  through  the  foliage 
which  half  concealed  it,  seemed,  indeed,  dur 
ing  these  first  days,  more  unreal  than  when 
she  had  conned  descriptions  of  its  majesty 
in  the  thumbed  pages  of  her  Sunday  Herald. 
Its  engraved  representation,  which  she  had 
pasted  in  her  old  scrapbook,  looked  more 
genial  and  approachable.  Her  chagrin  that 
its  mistress  had  not  spoken  of  her,  on  the 
night  of  her  arrival,  was  followed  by  a  sharp 
pin-prick.  She  learned  that  Mrs.  Marston 
and  her  guests  had  gone  away  at  dawn. 

Before  she  was  definitely  told  from  head 
quarters,  and  in  detail,  what  were  to  be  her 
special  duties,  she  would  have  time  to  "set 
tle"  herself,  that  vague  word  which,  to  femi 
nine  minds,  conveys  so  much.  To  be 


58          EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

unpacked  is  not  to  be  established,  to  be 
dressed  is  not  to  be  ready.  On  the  whole 
it  was  well. 

"I  declare,  the  home  is  so  pretty  it  's  a 
shame  we  ain't  acquainted  around  here,"  she 
said  to  Joe. 

"I  guess  after  the  first  church  sociable 
we'll  get  friendly  with  the  neighbors." 

"  There  ain't  any  other  grand  houses  like 
Mr.  Marston's,  is  there,  here?  " 

"I'm  told  two  mile  off  some  rich  New 
York  men  's  got  mansions.  I  guess  they  're 
friends  of  the  master's." 

Beth  laughed  and  flushed.  "  Why  do  you 
say  master  like  that,  Joe  Bush?  You  ain't 
the  gardener,  you  're  the  foreman." 

The  flower-gardener,  Mr.  Ackerman,  had 
shown  them  about  the  place  a  little,  and 
confided  the  poultry  to  Mrs.  Bush's  care. 
Beth  was  no  novice  in  such  matters,  and  she 
assumed  with  a  good  will  tasks  which 
seemed  easy  enough  when  viewed  in  the 
light  of  her  past. 

She  amused  herself  Saturday  afternoon 
after  her  work  was  all  done  arranging  her 
sitting-room.  She  cut  out  a  yellow  paper 
cover  for  the  mantel-shelf.  She  hung  some 
green  shades  to  the  windows.  The  chairs, 
which  were  in  sad  disarray,  she  set  against 
the  wall  with  the  accuracy  of  a  methodic 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART          59 

eye.  The  table  she  drew  exactly  into  the 
center  of  the  room,  measuring  distances 
with  praiseworthy  fidelity.  Upon  it  she 
placed  a  cheap  lamp,  a  family  Bible,  and 
two  red-bound  books  on  the  subject  of 
temperance,  which  an  enthusiast  had  once 
left  with  her  as  he  tramped  by  on  a  hot  sum 
mer's  noonday.  She  viewed  books  as  bric- 
a-brac.  To  these  she  added  a  photograph 
of  the  entire  Bush  family,  taken  in  a  group, 
framed  in  braided  straw.  Joe  in  the  fore 
ground,  with  Dottie,  ten  months  old,  on  his 
knee,  and  a  curiously  exaggerated  right 
hand  resting  on  the  child's  fat  shoulder;  and 
her  own  handsome  features,  just  visible  be 
hind  her  mother-in-law's  large  bonnet  pre 
senting  a  livid  blot.  Two  old  brass  spittoons 
she  burnished  up,  and  ranged  on  each  side 
of  the  hearth.  Joe  had  potted  some  plants 
for  her.  She  stood  these  in  the  window,  at 
which  she  hung  up  the  cage  of  Dottie's 
thrush,  which  bird  Josh  had  reared  expressly 
for  his  little  relative,  and  which  the  child 
had  carried  all  the  way  from  her  home  with 
patient  watchfulness.  It  chirped  cheerfully 
in  the  sunshine,  singing  on  its  perch  in 
gleeful  carelessness,  while  Dottie  thrust 
her  fingers  between  the  bars,  screech 
ing  with  delight  when  they  got  pecked  for 
their  pains. 


60          EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

It  was  summer — Long  Island  summer. 
Hot,  long  days  followed  hot,  long  days.  The 
cows  made  holes  in  the  turf  of  their  burned 
pasturage  to  cool  their  burning  flanks.  Far, 
far  away  the  sleepy  Sound  sent  up  now  and 
then  a  murmur  when  a  steamer  disturbed 
its  quietness,  lashing  its  peaceful  waters  into 
wave-crests. 

Deserted  by  its  owners,  who  had  gone 
with  friends  to  camp  in  the  mountains,  the 
great  villa  looked  like  a  Greek  temple,  where 
it  slept  upon  its  low  hill.  From  its  stately 
terraces  the  prospect  was  magnificent,  but 
they  were  not  near  to  the  sea,  and  when  the 
Marstons  wanted  a  briny  dip  they  drove  to 
the  shore,  on  which  they  owned  a  private 
bathing-house.  To  the  west  of  the  house 
lay  the  Italian  garden.  The  French  windows 
of  Mrs.  Marston's  bedroom,  which  opened 
upon  an  upper  balcony,  looked  out  upon  its 
walks.  This  balcony  was  in  itself  a  charm 
ing  place.  There  were  seats  about  it,  and 
statues,  and  dark  orange  trees  in  terra-cotta 
pots.  Sometimes  of  a  morning  she  would 
bloom  out  upon  it,  clad  in  one  of  her  pale- 
rose  peignoirs,  like  a  flower  suddenly  blown 
at  the  touch  of  dawn.  While  her  husband 
was  building  the  house,  she  was  reading 
Percier  and  Fontaine,  and  the  result  had 
been  the  pleasure-ground,  unique  in  Amer- 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART         61 

ica,  and  seeming  but  another  apartment  of 
a  domain  consecrated  to  ease.  She  desired 
box-hedges,  and  dreamed  of  arbor  vitae,  but, 
like  all  judicious  Long  Islanders,  had  com 
promised  on  privet.  This  was  so  dense, 
finely  cut  and  cared  for,  it  was  found  to 
answer  every  purpose.  In  the  center  of  the 
parterres,  to  which  one  ascended  at  four 
angles  by  stone  steps,  rose  a  fairy  pavilion, 
where  tea  was  served  on  warm  and  windless 
afternoons.  It  was  a  rotunda  supported  by 
Doric  columns.  Its  interior  was  lined  with 
mirrors.  It  was  of  white  stucco,  and  glis 
tened  in  the  sun.  It  contained  a  marble 
table  and  seats  which  Mr.  Marston  had 
found  in  Rome.  To  the  south  the  garden 
was  bounded  by  several  acres  of  uncultivated 
woodland.  At  the  foot  of  its  main  walk 
was  a  rosery,  in  the  middle  of  which  a  foun 
tain  played ;  about  the  fountain  bloomed 
azaleas,  hydrangeas,  and  such  flowering 
plants  as  the  season  furnished.  The  basin 
was  sunk  to  reflect  upon  the  breast  of  its 
clear  water  the  surrounding  growths.  Here 
and  there  at  the  edge  of  a  bosquet,  or  open 
ing  of  an  arbor,  one  caught  the  gleam  of 
white  statuary — a  dancing  nymph,  an  airy 
graceful  faun,  giving  the  scene  a  festive  and 
gay  air. 

"  My  husband  has  so  much  taste,"  Lola 


62          EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

would  murmur  to  her  friends  when  she 
showed  them  this  garden,  planned  by  her 
self.  Under  her  calm  exterior  lay  ever  this 
ardent  and  anxious  affection,  asking  sym 
pathy.  Mr.  Isham  understood  her  secret 
desire  that  all  should  do  her  husband  honor. 
It  touched  him. 

The  glass  graperies  and  conservatories 
were  quite  in  another  direction,  skirting  the 
eastern  limit  of  the  grounds.  Through 
these,  and  through  the  flower-garden,  Mr. 
Ackerman  piloted  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bush  one 
Sunday  afternoon.  The  French  chef,  Pierre 
Rose,  was  sitting  in  the  pavilion  in  his  shirt 
sleeves,  smoking  a  cigarette  and  reading 
his  Courier.  As  the  Bushes  approached 
he  picked  up  his  jacket,  put  it  on,  and,  with 
a  low  bow,  was  duly  presented  by  Mr. 
Ackerman. 

"  Quelle  belle  enfant''  placing  his  hand 
paternally  on  Dottie's  yellow  curls. 

He  was  a  handsome,  well-dressed  person 
of  about  thirty-five,  with  a  sarcastic  mouth, 
a  great  deal  of  curly  blue-black  hair,  and  a 
general  air  of  one  who  has  seen  the  world 
and  found  it  well  enough.  He  joined  the 
party,  throwing  away  his  cigarette,  and  saun 
tered  with  them  along  the  paths. 

"  Who  is  he,  anyway?  "  asked  Joe  of  Beth, 
with  a  puzzled  air. 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART         63 

"  Mr.  Ackerman  says  it  's  the — cook." 
Beth  smothered  a  giggle. 

"Well,  if  I  ain't  blessed!  " 

She  could  hardly  snub  this  august  individ 
ual,  who  was  so  much  more  polished  than 
Joe,  and  far  better  dressed  than  any  of  the 
men  she  had  ever  associated  with;  yet  her 
distinct  contempt  for  "servants,"  and  fear 
of  their  possible  familiarity,  rose  in  her 
throat.  She  contented  herself  by  dropping 
back  with  Dottie,  and  letting  the  gentlemen 
walk  in  advance.  By  and  by  they  met  some 
maids  from  the  house,  strolling  and  chatter 
ing,  looking  very  smart  in  their  livery  of 
black  cashmere,  wide  white  collars  and  cuffs, 
tiny  ribboned  caps,  and  embroidered  aprons. 

"I'd  hate  to  wear  anything  like  that," 
thought  Beth,  to  compensate  herself  for  the 
disagreeable  impression  that  their  outfit  was 
far  more  tasteful  and  suitable  than  her  own. 

They  stopped  as  they  passed,  and  one 
addressed  a  soft  word  to  Dottie,  but  Mrs. 
Bush  pushed  the  child  on  with  only  a  digni 
fied  and  distant  nod. 

"Well,  if  she  ain't  a  proud  one!"  said 
Bridget  Summers. 

"  Mrs.  Daggett  never  put  on  any  such 
airs,"  said  Delia.  Mrs.  Daggett  was  the 
late  farmer's  wife.  She  had  been  of  Irish 
birth. 


64         EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

"They  're  Americans,"  said  Mary,  the 
under-laundress.  "Augustine  says  so." 

"  Well,  and  if  she  be,  she  need  n't  eat  us. 
We  ain't  exactly  dirt." 

"  If  those  servants  think  I  'm  going  to 
associate  with  them,"  Mrs.  Bush  said  later 
to  her  husband,  "  I  '11  know  it."  She  tossed 
her  head  scowling. 

"  I  guess  they  would  n't  expect  it,"  said 
Joe.  "  Ain't  the  men  and  dairy-girls  been 
respec'ful?  " 

Beth  shook  her  head.  She  did  not  under 
stand  anything  any  more.  A  sudden  abyss 
seemed  to  yawn  under  her  feet. 

"  Seems  as  if  I  did  n't  know  what  was 
expected,"  she  said  under  her  breath. 

"  I  guess  it  don't  do  any  harm  to  be  civil," 
said  Joe  tentatively.  "It  's  all  one." 

"  It  's  a  fine  place,"  he  said  by  and  by, 
looking  at  his  wife  uneasily.  "We  never 
seen  anything  like  it  before." 

But  his  efforts  at  conjugal  conversation 
were  baffled  by  silence. 

Things  and  people  all  have  two  aspects: 
those  of  our  impatience  or  of  our  tolerance. 
Beth's  tolerant  moods  seemed,  since  her 
arrival  at  Marston  Terrace,  to  be  sorely 
strained. 


CHAPTER  VI 

The  church  sociable,  which  Joe's  prophetic 
instinct  whispered  would  soon  throw  down 
the  barriers  of  formality  between  the  new 
comers  and  their  neighbors,  did  not  fail  to 
take  place.  They  were  bidden  to  it  two 
weeks  after  their  arrival.  Here  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Bush  made  some  acquaintances.  They 
were  treated  with  marked  consideration. 
Mrs.  Bush,  who  improvised  a  somewhat 
elaborate  toilette  for  the  occasion  out  of  a 
piece  of  black  silk,  the  gift  of  her  mother-in- 
law,  and  some  embroidery  ripped  from  a 
discarded  winter  costume,  looked  extremely 
handsome.  A  certain  excitement,  indispen 
sable  to  the  beauty  of  her  highly  nervous 
type,  lent  itself  to  this  result.  Among  the 
feasters  whom  she  closely  inspected,  while 
they  in  their  turn  "took  in"  her  striking 
figure,  two  persons  detached  themselves  to 
dwell  afterward  with  persistence  in  her 
memory.  The  rest  was  a  bright  mass  of 
comely  maidens  in  starched  muslin  frocks, 
which  looked  somewhat  outgrown,  belted  at 

65 


66         EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

their  slim  waists  with  garish  ribbons,  and 
whose  hats  were  surmounted  by  a  large  va 
riety  of  bows,  feathers,  and  cheap  flowers. 
Some  of  them  wore  showy  watch-chains, 
brooches,  and  earrings.  The  matrons,  in 
soberer  attire,  with  sallow  cheeks,  frequently 
— when  over  thirty — displaying  in  their  smile 
a  double  row  of  palpably  false  teeth,  gener 
ally  wore  black  bonnets  over  thin  hair 
whisked  from  a  part  two  ringers  wide.  The 
men,  rugged-handed,  spare,  with  shrewd, 
kindly  eyes,  generally  wore  black  broad 
cloth;  some  few  of  the  younger  ones,  the 
lighter  rough  suits  of  the  day's  mode  stamped 
"ready-made." 

Two  persons,  I  say,  detached  themselves 
from  the  crowd.  One  was  a  young  woman, 
whose  name  was  given  to  Mrs.  Bush  by  the 
doctor's  wife  while  they  partook  of  coffee 
together  under  the  tent. 

"That 's  Floribel  Pullen,"  she  said.  "  Have 
you  seen  her  before?  She's  well  known 
around  here." 

Something  in  the  lady's  tone  of  voice  sug 
gested  to  Mrs.  Bush  that  this  knowledge  was 
not  altogether  without  spice,  and  might  even 
touc'i  on  the  forbidden. 

"  /  have  n't  become  acquainted  with  the 
neighbors,  even  by  sight,  yet,"  said  Mrs. 
Bush  prudently. 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART          67 

"  Well,  she  's  a  gay  one!  " 

"  She  's  real  pretty." 

"  How  old,  now,  would  you  take  her  to 
be?" 

"Well,  I  guess  twenty-four,  perhaps." 

"  Twenty-four!  "  If  she  had  not  been  too 
ladylike  to  whistle,  the  doctor's  wife  would 
have  relieved  herself  in  this  primitive  fash 
ion.  "  If  Floribel  Pullen  ever  sees  thirty- 
four  again,  she  '11  be  mighty  content." 

"WTell!  she's  young-looking." 

"It's  a  wonder,  too,  with  all  she's  gone 
through,"  and  again  the  physician's  spouse 
raised  an  eyebrow  charged  with  meaning. 
"  Here,  Miss  Pullen,"  she  called  out  to  the 
object  of  her  comments. 

Floribel  lowered  a  white  parasol,  and 
closed  her  eyes  half-way. 

"Did  you  speak  to  me,  Mrs.  Opdycke?" 
she  asked  in  a  clear,  ringing  voice. 

"Yes;  I  want  to  introduce  you  to  Mrs. 
Bush — she  's  living  over  at  Mr.  Marston's. 
Mr.  Bush  's  taken  the  farm." 

"  I  'm  sure  I  'm  very  glad  to  meet  you, 
Mrs.  Bush,"  and  Miss  Pullen,  extending  a 
neatly  gloved  hand,  courteseyed. 

Where  she  got  those  gloves,  that  parasol, 
those  fresh,  perfectly  fitting  gowns,  had  long 
been  an  unsolved  riddle  to  the  minds  of 
Paradise.  The  Pullens  were  known  to  be 


68          EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

poor.  The  only  son  and  brother  was  a  ne'er- 
do-weel,  the  mother  foolish  and  shiftless, 
with  no  known  sources  of  income,  the  father 
dead. 

She  had  white  hands  that  did  little  or  no 
work,  as  one  could  see  by  their  finger-tips; 
while  her  well-shod  feet,  quick  to  tread  the 
mazes  of  the  dance,  swift  to  run  in  the  ways 
of  pleasure,  were  laggard  to  all  unpleasant 
errands. 

Now  she  came  forward,  with  her  vivid 
smile,  those  idle  arms  outstretched  to  greet 
the  stranger.  Her  enemies,  and  she  had  not 
a  few — although  of  this  she  seemed  una 
ware — could  not  but  admit  that  she  had  a 
"manner  with  her."  This  manner  was  now 
uppermost.  If  it  concealed  turpitude,  it  did 
its  work  well.  It  was  always  modest,  seemly 
decorous,  candid.  Yes,  here  it  went  a  trifle 
far.  There  was  a  childish  inflection  of 
voice,  upraised  lids  filled  with  innocent  and 
unslaked  curiosity,  asking  to  be  taught,  to 
sit  at  one's  feet,  to  listen — mayhap  to  be 
chidden  and  shed  a  tear  or  two.  This  atti 
tude,  which  may  have  been  a  birthright,  had 
crystallized  into  the  parti  pris.  It  still  suf 
ficed  for  the  simple.  The  subtle  questioned 
its  values. 

While  she  chatted  glibly  with  Mrs.  Bush, 
exclamatory,  surprised  —  she  lived  in  a  con- 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART          69 

stant  condition  of  infantile  wonderment- 
absorbed,  sympathetic,  eyes,  ears,  and 
tongues  were  busy  with  her  name. 

Miss  Pullen's  earliest  recorded  love  af 
fair  had  been  a  tragedy.  While  she  was 
still  very  young,  an  admirer  of  hers  was 
drowned.  She  appeared  immediately  in 
widow's  weeds,  insisting  that  she  was  en 
gaged  to  him.  The  hostile  and  spiteful 
saw  in  this  only  a  fine  piece  of  comedy. 
They  had  doubted  his  intentions.  He  was 
the  son  of  Mr.  Paradise,  a  prosperous  farmer, 
after  whom  the  hamlet  was  named,  a  rich 
man,  whose  girls  learned  French,  and  whose 
sons  were  sent  to  college,  far  above  the 
Pullens  in  position.  Her  lamentations,  how 
ever,  had  been  loud  if  not  prolonged.  She 
had  exacted  much  commiseration  from  her 
acquaintances.  A  bereavement  which  fails 
to  crush  does  not  therefore  stifle  in  us  a 
desire  for  pity.  Somebody  must  suffer  if  a 
just  balance  is  to  be  obtained,  and  the  dead 
to  have  their  dues.  She  had  risen  from  this 
blow  with  a  certain  smell  of  mould  and 
mystery  clinging  to  her  garments.  She 
was  eminently  occupying. 

"  If  there  ain  't  Florrie  Pullen  makin'  up 
to  Marston's  new  people.  She  'd  be  in 
with  the  last  strange  face  if  it  had  the 
devil's  horns  growing  above  it,"  said  Mrs. 


70          EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

Bryan,  the  innkeeper's  wife.  "  I  don't  say 
but  what  Miss  Bush  looks  to  be  a  right  smart 
lady,"  she  added,  repentingly,  after  a  hasty 
survey  of  Beth's  straight  back  and  shoul 
ders.  "  I  hear  they  "re  good  folks  down  in 
Pontifex." 

"  Mr.  Oakes  is  sweet  on  her  now,"  said 
the  addressed  person,  with  a  glance  toward 
Floribel,  in  which  malevolence  was  veiled 
in  a  certain  satisfaction.  Twenty  years 
older  than  a  husband  who  was  not  entirely 
impervious  to  feminine  charm,  the  stout 
postmistress,  Madam  Fesser,  although  of  a 
proverbially  indulgent  temper,  could  never 
theless  defend  her  own  when  attacked,  as 
her  collie  dog  could  fight  for  a  bone.  She 
was  well  content  that  Floribel's  foray  should 
be  directed  into  another  camp. 

"  He  'd  better  look  out  then  for  that 
black-browed  beetle  as  comes  up  of  a  Sun 
day  after  Florrie.  Her  ma  says  he's  her 
reg'lar  comp'ny,  a  lawyer  from  the  city.  I 
guess  it  ain  't  Oakes  as '11  cut  him  out.  He 
ain't  got  a  cent  to  bless  himself  with,  the 
poor  lad,  for  all  his  pride  an'  learnin'.  They 
do  say,  tho',  that  the  city  chap  is  mighty 
sick  of  his  bargain — 

Other  women's  men  are  apt  to  present  an 
aspect  of  fatigue  to  vigilant  feminine  critics. 
Mrs.  Bryan  lowered  her  voice,  and  the  two 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART          71 

old  dames  with  heads  in  close  contact,  and 
vibrant  bonnet-strings,  continued  their  talk 
in  muffled  murmurs,  shaken  by  occasional 
bursts  of  shrill  laughter. 

"  Mr.  Oakes,  let  me  make  you  acquainted 
with  Mrs.  Bush:  Mrs.  Bush  —  Mr.  Oakes." 

Beth  looked  up.  This  was  that  other 
individuality,  besides  Floribel's,  which,  from 
the  moment  of  her  advent  on  the  church 
campus,  had  invaded  and  held  her  thought. 
A  tall,  slender  young  man,  with  unreadable 
gray  eyes  —  eyes  which  burned  like  two 
fitful  fires,  curls  of  thick  light  hair,  grow 
ing  low  on  a  forehead  broad  and  prominent, 
a  straight,  finely-chiseled  nose,  a  square, 
strong  jaw,  with  lips  drawn  into  set  stern 
ness  ;  a  rare  smile,  totally  devoid  of  merri 
ment,  nevertheless  lighted  up  the  face  into 
evanescent  spirituality,  giving  it  at  moments 
a  strange  beauty  ;  slightly  stooping  shoul 
ders,  the  chest  narrow  and  hollowed,  but 
withal  a  nervous  and  muscular  flexibility  of 
frame. 

The  reason  that  these  two  persons  stood 
out  from  among  the  country-bred  circle  of 
which  they  appeared  to  form  a  part  was  that 
Floribel,  for  all  her  candor,  looked  like  a 
woman  of  pleasure,  and  Mr.  Oakes  like  a 
gentleman. 

Yes,   in    spite    of    his   worn   trousers,  his 


72         EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

threadbare  black  coat,  his  sunburned  straw 
hat  with  its  faded  ribbon,  there  was  about 
him  that  discernible  "  quality  "  which  is  born 
in  a  person,  never  acquired.  Possibly  some 
remote  ancestor,  who  had  wielded  sword  or 
pen,  at  any  rate  power,  had  infused  into  his 
veins  that  drop  of  ichor  which  lifted  him 
from  among  his  fellows.  Yet  Percival  Oakes 
was  only  a  village  school-teacher — as  yet. 
In  the  heart-devouring  weariness  of  his  lot, 
while  he  hearkened  to  the  drowsy  voices  of 
the  dirty  urchins  and  frowzy  lasses  who  sat 
under  his  tuition,  these  two  words,  "  as  yet," 
flamed  in  his  soul.  That  soul  was  full  of 
bitterness.  Ill-clothed,  ill-fed,  a  chronic  suf 
ferer  from  acute  dyspepsia,  his  face  was 
already  lined  with  the  marks  of  morbid  intro 
spection,  impotent  cynicism,  and  impatient 
scorn.  He  walked  through  the  beautiful 
meadows,  his  head  crouched  between  his 
shoulders,  or  hanging  forward  on  his  breast, 
wrapped  in  dark  musings.  If  nature  was 
hardly  a  spectacle  to  him,  it  was  never  a 
refuge.  His  was  not  the  reverie  of  the 
Oriental,  to  whom  action  is  fatal  and  futile, 
but  an  agitated  dream  devoid  of  tenderness. 
His  eyes,  rarely  turned  upward  to  the  heaven 
of  stars,  burrowed  earthward.  This  habit 
gave  him  a  frowning  aspect,  which  passably 
alarmed  children,  and  made  young  girls 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART          73 

afraid  of  him.  He  was  not  over-popular. 
He  was  considered  to  be  an  inefficient 
teacher.  It  was  said  of  him  that  he  was 
above  his  work.  Being  alone  in  the  world, 
without  friends  or  money,  he  had  been  un 
able  to  obtain  any  higher  education  than  a 
common  school  one,  but  by  this  he  had 
profited.  An  industrious,  steady  student,  he 
carried  off  every  prize.  He  was  still  a  stu 
dent,  an  inveterate  reader,  and  he  perused 
deep,  strange  books,  whose  very  names  would 
have  filled  the  mouth  and  disconcerted  the 
brains  of  Paradise.  His  opinions  were  known 
to  be  of  the  most  radical,  and  although  he 
attended  "  meeting,"  there  were  those  who 
whispered  that  he  was  a  free-thinker,  that  he 
went  to  church  as  a  mere  form,  and  not  to 
give  cause  for  scandal  to  his  scholars.  He 
spent  his  petty  stipend  almost  entirely  in 
books,  hardly  giving  himself  the  necessaries 
of  existence.  He  boarded  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  hamlet  with  a  forlorn  widow  as  lonely 
as  himself.  He  was  only  twenty-three  years 
old. 

There  was  but  one  person  who  could  boast 
that  she  had  ever  made  him  laugh.  This 
wasFloribel  Pullen.  Sometimes  of  an  even 
ing  he  called  at  her  mother's  house,  and  once 
or  twice  at  dusk  they  had  been  met  walking 
together  in  the  fields.  This  had  been  enough 


74          EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

to  set  the  gossips  at  work,  but  there  was 
really — nothing.  Floribel  enjoyed  his  in 
cendiary,  disconnected  talk,  which  waxed 
a  bit  wild  in  its  theoretic  denouncements,  its 
vain  dissatisfactions,  and  in  which  the  ego  of 
a  repressed  nature  played  so  arrogant  a  part. 
It  is  not  the  kings  and  great  ones  of  earth 
who  suffer  from  la  maladie  des  grandeurs;  it 
is  those  whom  fate  has  thwarted.  Nature 
revenges  her  own  cruelties.  In  lunatic  asy 
lums  those  who  play  they  are  emperors  and 
gods  are  recruits  from  the  rank  and  file  of 
the  ineffectual  and  unfortunate. 

Floribel  thought  him  clever — which  he 
was — while  the  young  man  was  grateful  to 
her  for  her  unflagging  spirits,  her  perfect 
amiability;  and,  shall  it  be  said,  the  fact  that 
she  was  contemptuously  spoken  of  by  other 
women  drew  him  to  espouse  her  cause. 
Notwithstanding  that  Oakes  looked  upon  all 
merry-making  as  frivolous,  her  sparkling 
gayety  was  pleasant  to  him. 

Now,  when  he  and  Beth  raised  their  eyes, 
two  little  evil  spirits,  which  dwelt  behind 
them,  looked  out  and  recognized  each  other. 
They  nodded  and  winked  at  each  other, 
these  spirits  of  revolt,  shyly  and  furtively. 
Only  there  was  this  difference:  Beth,  who 
was  much  older  than  Oakes,  had  not  yet 
reached  his  landmark.  She  wanted  to  scale, 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART          75 

to  rise,  to  reach;  he  wished  to  pull  down,  to 
scatter,  to  destroy — yes,  he  had  traveled  thus 
far  already. 

"  Marston's  folks  is  away,  ain't  they?" 
asked  Mrs.  Fesser,  bustling  up  to  join  Mrs. 
Bush  and  the  schoolmaster  while  they 
were  exchanging  a  few  perfunctory  words. 
"There's  letters  lying  for  them  at  the  office.  " 

"Yes,"  said  Beth,  "they've  gone  to  the 
mountains." 

"  Well,  Archibald  Marston  's  a  good 
man." 

"Good!  why  good?"  asked  Oakes  gloom- 
ily. 

"Well,  he's  a  kind  neighbor,"  said  Mrs. 
Fesser,  "  anyway." 

"  Kind!  "  The  word  shivered  with  new 
meaning. 

"  He  ain  't  ever  done  us  no  harm  as  I  know 
of,"  said  Mrs.  Fesser,  not  without  asperity. 
"No  one  likes  to  be  so  'picked  up,'"  she 
told  her  husband  afterwards. 

"  It 's  those  kind  men  who  ruin  the  earth," 
said  Oakes  with  a  scowl. 

"  I  ain't  one  as  dislikes  a  man  'cause  he  's 
richer  than  others,"  said  Mrs.  Fesser.  "  I 
guess  if  we  had  his  riches  maybe  we  'd  do  as 
he  does,  and  not  so  well  either.  He  ain't 
mean.  It  ain't  them  as  splurge  and  spend 
as  them  dynamiters  ought  to  blow  up,  but 


76          EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

them  as  is  stingy,  and  locks  up  their  money 
in  the  banks  where  it  don't  do  nobody  any 
good."  So  Marston's  views  found  echo  in 
Mrs.  Fesser's  words. 

"  My  wife  's  about  right,"  said  Mr.  Fesser, 
coming  up.  He  had  lately  been  forgiven  an 
escapade,  and  was  glad  to  deliver  himself  of 
this  tribute  to  Mrs.  Fesser's  good  judgment. 
"  When  Marston  built  here  land  rose  consid 
erable.  It 's  brought  luck.  Why,  Farmer 
Sammis,  he  got  four  thousand  for  a  bit  of 
land  no  bigger  'n  our  back  yard  that  did  n't 
raise  nothing  nor  shellfish  and  fiddlers,  'cause 
of  its  havin'  a  strip  o'  shore." 

"  Perhaps  Mrs.  Bush  can  tell  us,"  said  the 
schoolmaster  with  an  enigmatic  smile,  "why 
land,  which  is  the  heritage  of  the  whole  hu 
man  race,  should  rise  and  fall  in  values 
according  to  the  whim  of  the  few?" 

It  is  probable  that  Beth  did  not  understand 
him,  yet  a  secret  sense  of  being  distinguished 
by  his  thus  addressing  her  brought  a  sudden 
flush  to  her  forehead. 

"  It  does  seem  as  if  it  were  wrong,"  she 
said,  half  inaudibly,  in  that  low,  nasal  tone 
which  was  her  habitual  one. 

"  And  wrong  will  be  avenged,"  said  Oakes 
with  stifled  heat. 

"  My  wife  's  right.  One  of  them  anarchy, 
cranky  fellers  gave  a  lecture  over  to  Queen's 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART          77 

on  Monday  night.  Me  and  Charlie  Bryan 
stepped  in.  Well,  if  he  did  n't  say  marriage 
ought'r  be  done  away  with,  and  men  and 
women  live  free  like  savage  folk." 

Mrs.  Fesser  threw  up  a  hand  in  protest. 

"  Well,  if  I  ever  !  If  that  don't  prove  they 
ought  to  be  locked  up,  I  don't  know  as  what 
does!" 

Fesser  greeted  these  exclamations  with  a 
series  of  virtuous  nods.  He  was  very  com 
fortable  on  his  wife's  salary. 

"  I  'm  sure  Mr.  Marston  's  a  good  man, 
and  his  wife  's  a  very  fine  lady,"  said  Flori- 
bel,  turning  the  subject  from  dissolving  mar 
riage  ties  with  her  usual  tact.  "Ain't  she 
beautiful,  Mrs.  Bush?" 

Beth  did  not  like  to  acknowledge  that  she 
had  never  seen  the  mistress  of  Marston  Ter 
race,  whom  she  would  not  have  liked  to  call 
her  own. 

"Yes,  she  's  beautiful,"  she  said  evasively. 

Percival  Oakes  paled.  Of  a  romantic  tem 
perament,  all  his  dreams  of  equality,  all  his 
hopes  for  the  dismemberment  of  existing 
law,  all  his  passionate  longing  for  redress, 
broke  into  nothingness  before  the  phantom 
which  Floribel's  words  awoke.  He  detested 
Mr.  Marston  with  that  deadly  detestation 
whose  enmity  is  none  the  less  measureless 
because  it  is  unreasoning.  He  resented  his 


78          EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

patronizing  "  How  are  you,  Oakes?  "  and 
movement  of  head  and  whip  as  he  passed 
behind  his  rapid  horses,  peppering  the  school 
master,  plodding  on  the  roadside,  with  sum 
mer  dust,  or  splashing  him  with  autumn  mud. 
He  loathed  the  man's  self-satisfaction,  the 
fashion  of  his  covert  coat,  the  cut  of 
his  short  brown  beard.  He  loathed  him, 
and  he  loathed  his  friends.  There  was  one 
in  particular,  one  who  was  always  with  her, 
Mrs.  Marston,  whom  he  would  have  liked  to 
spike,  and  split,  and  roast,  like  the  bull-calf 
that  he  was!  Mrs.  Marston!  ndar  her!  Ah! 
there  could  be  no  desire  for  equality  here. 
This  woman,  toy  of  fate  though  she  was, 
tossed  in  the  hands  of  such  miscreants — 
words  had  lost  their  meaning  to  his  stormy 
consciousness  —  she  indeed  was  born  to 
sovereignty.  None  would  deny  it  to  her! 
The  haunting  sweetness  of  her  mouth  when 
she  once  addressed  him  in  the  train,  thank 
ing  him  for  a  slight  service — he  had  raised 
a  window  the  bull-calf  could  not  manage — 
revealed  to  him  her  being.  He  felt  that  he 
alone  understood  her.  She  whose  love 
should  be  a  free  gift  to  the  trembling  adora 
tion  of  a  timid  vassal!  She  to  be  the  slave 
of  custom  —  the  dupe  of  destiny!  He  pitied 
her! 

In  the  young  man's  thought  there  clus- 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART          79 

tered  mistily  about  her  person  a  boundless 
reverence,  such  as  the  early  Christians  doubt 
less  felt  in  their  blind  worship  for  the  queen 
of  heaven.  The  one  gentle,  wholesome  in 
fluence  that  filled  his  breast  was  that  of  this 
lady.  It  rested  him.  No  Bernard  de  Ven- 
tadour,  no  Gaisses  Brulez  or  Quienes  de 
Bethune  ever  gave  mistress  a  more  trans 
cendent  homage  than  did  this  poor  fellow 
to  the  woman  who  had  spoken  to  him  once. 
Sometimes  he  divined  rather  than  saw 
her,  under  her  parasol,  in  the  sunshine,  pacing 
her  terraces,  or  lingering  in  her  gardens; 
sometimes  she  passed  him  swiftly  at  even 
ing  in  her  low  phaeton,  under  the  boughs,  or 
he  caught  glimpse  of  her,  followed  by  her 
groom,  galloping  on  her  black  horse  across 
the  twilight.  At  the  mere  thought  of  her 
there  blossomed  in  his  breast  a  mystic  flower, 
a  new  ideal  of  manly  honor,  a  new  belief  in 
woman's  purity. 


CHAPTER  VII 

"  Here,  Mr.  Asch — Fenno,  hand  me  that 
string." 

"  I  can't  reach  it." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you  are  too  lazy 
to  get  up  and  walk  to  the  table?  " 

"  What  in  the  world  are  you  heating  your 
self  so  for?  It 's  infernally  warm  out  here." 

"Hush!  Here  's  some  one  crunching  on 
the  gravel;  it  must  be  the  Plunketts;  but 
no,"  a  laugh.  "  It 's  only  our  new  gar 
dener's — farmer's  wife.  Here,  catch!  " 

Mrs.  Marston  threw  a  small  hammer,  fol 
lowed  by  a  garden  trowel,  over  the  ballus- 
trade,  at  the  base  of  which  she  was  kneeling. 
These  agricultural  implements  landed  very 
near  the  nose  of  a  young  gentleman  taking 
his  ease  in  a  hammock.  This  hammock 
swung  in  the  veranda,  a  retreat  furnished 
like  a  room,  with  tables,  lounges,  chairs, 
books,  cushions,  and  a  general  aspect  of 
careless  comfort.  He  himself  presented  a 
picture  of  perfect  repose.  If  in  Mr.  Oakes's 
dark  cogitations  the  cognomen  of  "  bull-calf" 
seemed  applicable,  to  the  casual  observer  it 
80 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART          81 

must  have  appeared  groundless  and  unmer 
ited. 

There  are  not  many  finer  specimens  of 
physical  manhood  cast  in  the  capricious 
mould  of  nature.  His  figure,  admirably  pro 
portioned,  has  the  lightness  and  agility  of 
the  Greek  wrestlers  trained  to  Olympian 
conflicts.  Iphitus  himself  would  doubtless 
have  selected  him  for  the  ten  months'  novi 
tiate  which  fitted  to  suppleness  and  strength 
the  aspirants  to  the  green  crown.  His  face 
is  no  less  remarkable;  it  is  chiseled  as  with 
the  deft  hand  of  a  Myron  modeling  a  Mar- 
syas.  The  hair,  a  rich  bright  brown,  is 
abundant,  silken,  and  curly;  the  mouth,  albeit 
without  sensibility,  is  absolutely  correct  to 
the  rules  of  sculptured  proportion;  the  lips 
are  red,  the  teeth  gleam  from  between  them 
a  flash  of  snow.  'The  eyes  widely  open, 
of  a  dark  sapphire  blue,  are  of  such  flawless 
brilliance  that  they  resemble  glass-bawbles 
more  than  the  pristine  stone  itself;  they  are 
surrounded  by  dark  eyelashes  of  unusual 
thickness. 

"What  a  beastly  bore!"  Mr.  Asch  turned 
over  his  white  flannel  form  in  the  hammock, 
and  glanced  between  its  meshes  with  a  som 
nolent  eye.  "  Have  I  got  to  go  away?" 

"  Why,  yes,  certainly;  I  Ve  never  seen  her 
before.  I  have  to  tell  her  things." 


82         EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

"What  things?  I  won't  listen.  I'm 
asleep." 

"Well,  they  are  certainly  not  corrupting 
to  your  innocence,"  said  Mrs.  Marston, 
laughing. 

Mrs.  Bush  pushed  open  the  veranda  gate 
and  mounted  the  two  steps  which  raised  its 
flooring  from  the  grass. 

"  How  are  you,  Mrs.  Bush?"  Mrs.  Mars- 
ton  nodded;  extending  her  right  hand. 

So  at  last  Beth  stood  before  her  idol!  She 
saw  a  tumbled  blue  gingham  frock,  from  be 
low  whose  hem  pointed  two  slender  shoes 
slightly  whitened  at  the  toes  by  contact  with 
dew  and  sand;  disheveled,  somewhat  color 
less  hair  under  a  battered  sailor  hat; 
a  delicate  little  nose  upon  whose  slender 
retrousst  tip  the  sun  had  just  dropped  a 
freckle.  The  hand  extended  was  incased  in 
a  soiled  suede  glove  reaching  the  elbow, 
wrinkled  at  the  wrist.  It  is  probable  that 
the  pit  still  expects  the  queen  of  the  drama 
to  appear  in  regal  bravery;  that  a  crown,  an 
ermine  cloak,  or  at  least  a  scepter  remain  to 
it  the  only  sure  insignia  of  royalty.  The 
vulgar  conception  of  a  pedestal  is  stilts. 
Although  Beth  had  assured  her  husband, 
while  still  in  the  wilds  of  Pontifex,  that  she 
anticipated  relations  of  intimacy  and  of 
friendliness  with  their  new  employers,  pos- 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART         83 

sibly  these  exaggerated  hopes  had  already 
paled.  Mrs.  Archibald  Marston  had  too 
long  filled  her  ideal  of  elegance  and  of 
power  for  the  first  view  of  her  not  to  clash 
violently  with  all  her  preconceived  imagina 
tions  and  to  be  a  fresh  disappointment.  As 
she  shook  the  lady's  extended  hand  with 
three  cold  fingers  and  followed  her  stiffly 
into  the  boudoir,  she  wondered  who  the 
"man"  might  be  glaring  at  them  through 
the  hammock  netting,  and  not  rising  when 
they  passed  him.  She  felt  almost  dizzy  with 
her  disillusion  and  chagrin.  Yet  strangely 
enough  she  had  not  been  ten  minutes  with 
the  fair  chdtelaine,  had  not  listened  to  the 
ripple  of  her  soft  talk,  the  vibrations  of  her 
high-bred  laughter,  before  she  realized  the 
distance  between  them  to  be  enormous, 
and  abysmal.  No  negligence  of  apparel, 
no  lack  of  startling  claims  to  beauty, 
nay,  the  very  lack  of  these,  seemed  but  to 
widen  the  separation,  to  accentuate  the  fact 
— a  fact  made  clear  to  Beth's  sharp  insight, 
notwithstanding  its  apparent  incongruity. 
Beth  had  herself  made  careful  preparation 
for  the  occasion.  She  had  once  more  donned 
the  black  silk  dress,  with  its  embroidered 
collar  and  cuffs.  She  wore  a  pair  of  tight 
and  extremely  glact  gloves.  She  carried 
her  purse,  in  lieu  of  a  card-case,  between  her 


84         EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

thumb  and  index  as  if  prepared  for  a  shop 
ping  bout  down  Broadway;  on  her  head  was 
her  best  Sunday  bonnet.  It  was  rather  high 
and  had  a  bunch  of  red  poppies  at  its  apex. 
Her  lips,  dry  with  agitation,  were  pursed 
into  their  visiting  angle,  while  her  whole 
person  assumed  an  unbending  rigidity.  Her 
hostess,  on  the  contrary,  was  perfectly  at 
ease;  one  hand  went  to  her  hip  and  remained 
there;  with  the  other  she  pushed  her  hat 
from  her  forehead,  giving  a  tug  to  the  front 
locks  of  her  hair  which  she  dragged  down 
to  meet  the  root  of  her  little  nose  with  an 
impatient  exclamation. 

"  I  've  been  gardening,"  she  explained, 
pulling  up  her  skirt  and  crossing  one  knee 
over  the  other.  "  My  stockings  seem  to  be 
coming  down,  too,"  she  said,  smiling,  and 
gave  a  jerk  to  the  article  in  question,  reveal 
ing  as  she  did  so  a  silken  garter  with  a  dia 
mond  clasp  to  it. 

Beth  froze  upon  her  chair. 

"Well,  how  do  you  like  it  here?  " 

A  sudden  resolve  shot  through  Beth's  con 
sciousness.  She  leaned  back  in  her  seat, 
crossed  one  foot  over  the  other,  since  this 
was  the  requisite  "  pose,"  but  did  it  con 
servatively,  only  displaying  the  two  first 
buttons  of  her  perfectly  fitting  boot. 

"Well,"  she  said,     "I'm    trying  to  get 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART          85 

used  to  it.  Of  course  it  ain  't  like  Pon- 
tifex." 

Her  tone  somewhat  surprised  Mrs.  Mars- 
ton. 

"Ah!  Pontifex?  That 's  your  old  home, 
is  it  not?  " 

"  Yes,  my  husband's  property  is  there," 
said  Mrs.  Bush  vaguely,  "  and  it  is  such  a 
fine  place —  We  have  the  very  best  so 
ciety." 

Mrs.  Marston  suppressed  a  desire  to  titter. 

"  Have  you  met  any  of  the  neighbors 
here?"  she  ventured.  "I  hope  you  will 
feel  at  home." 

"  They  ain  't  the  sort  of  people  I  've  been 
used  to,"  said  Beth  haughtily. 

"Ah!" 

"  I  sha'n't  care  for  Dottie  to  associate  with 
any  of  the  children  around  here.  They  're 
rough." 

"  There  are  some  nice  children  here,  I  be 
lieve,"  said  Mrs.  Marston,  more  and  more 
intrigute. 

"I  'm  very  particular,"  said  Mrs.  Bush. 

"  Have  you  been  to  the  church?  " 

"Well,  yes,"  said  Beth;  "  it 's  small.  I 
guess  the  best  folks  here  is  Episcopals." 

"And  how  is  the  dear  dairy  getting  on?" 
said  Mrs.  Marston  lightly,  changing  the  sub 
ject.  "  I  '11  come  over  to-morrow  and  see 


86          EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

you  all  there.  And  the  poultry?  I  hope 
you  're  setting  some  ducks'  eggs,  Mrs. 
Bush." 

"  I  will  do  all  I  can  to  please  you,  Mrs. 
Marston,"  said  Mrs.  Bush,  "while  we  stay." 

"  Are  you  so  discontented  you  think  of 
leaving  us?  "  asked  Mrs.  Marston,  a  trifle 
coldly.  "Everybody  loves  this  place,  and 
thinks  it  quite  charming." 

Beth  was  silent.  A  painful  pause  ensued. 
She  was  the  first  to  break  it. 

"You  're  real  comfortable  here,"  she  said, 
superciliously,  looking  through  the  superb 
portieres  which  divided  the  boudoir  from  the 
cold  white  spaces  of  the  ballroom  beyond. 
"  But  ain  't  these  hangings  hot  in  the  sum 
mer?  I  would  n't  care  to  have  such  about 
me." 

Mrs.  Marston  was  speechless. 

There  were  a  few  more  words  about  the 
butter  and  chickens,  then  Mrs.  Marston 
arose  and  said  somewhat  dryly: 

"  I  'm  awfully  sorry,  but  I  'm  expecting 
friends  and  really  I  must  dress  myself.  I  'm 
so  untidy.  Come  again,  some  morning — 
that  is  the  best  time — and  bring  .  er 

your    little    girl — what    is    her 
name?  " 

Then  as  Mrs.  Bush  sprang  from  her  chair 
with  the  impetus  of  a  ball  shot  from  a  can- 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART         87 

non's  mouth,  Lola  Marston  made  another 
effort  at  conciliation. 

"  I  do  hope  they  carried  out  all  my  direc 
tions  about  the  cottage — the  painting  and 
papering.  I  was  away  and  could  n't  see  to 
it.  I  hope  you  found  it  clean  and  nice." 

"It's  some  cramped,"  drawled  Beth.  "I 
think  Mr.  Bush's  going  to  ask  Mr.  Marston 
for  a  new  kitchen,  and  I  think  if  he  'd  put  us 
up  a  piazza  like  this  you  have  here  it  would 
be  much  more  like  what  we  've  been  used  to 
in  Pontifex." 

She  inwardly  thanked  Providence  that 
Joseph  was  not  within  earshot. 

"  We  have  had  great  expense  lately,"  said 
Mrs.  Marston,  now  decidedly  roused,  "and 
I  have  much  doubt — nay,  I  am  quite  sure 
Mr.  Marston  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind. 
Good-afternoon." 

"Good-afternoon,"  said  Mrs.  Bush,  with  a 
slight  inclination  of  the  head.  She  did  not 
know  if  she  was  expected  to  shake  hands 
again,  and  half  extended  her  digits,  tortured 
into  their  six-and-a-half  glove;  but  Mrs. 
Marston  did  not  see,  or  ignored,  the  gesture, 
and  slipped  past  her  with  a  nod  of  dis 
missal. 

As  Mrs.  Bush  emerged  once  more  into  the 
veranda,  Fenno  Asch,  who  still  sprawled  in 
the  hammock,  woke  with  a  start,  and  gave 


88          EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

her  an  exhaustive  inspection.  She  tugged 
at  the  gate  for  a  moment  ineffectually,  but 
he  remained  prone,  offering  no  assistance, 
watching  her  discomfiture  with  a  smileless 
stare.  When  she  got  herself  once  more 
upon  the  turf,  she  could  almost  hear  her 
heart  beat.  In  its  humiliation  and  its  anger, 
she  thought  that  it  would  break. 

Fenno  Asch  shook  himself.  He  liked 
Marston  Terrace  very  much.  They  let  you 
alone,  and  then  the  cooking  was  first  rate,  as 
was  also  the  Madeira.  At  the  other  houses 
where  he  visited  he  was  sometimes  expected 
to  talk  to  a  girl,  or — what  was  not  quite  so 
deucedly  unpleasant,  but  still  inconvenient — 
to  make  love  to  the  lady  of  the  house.  One 
never  knew  where  that  game  would  end. 
But  there  were  no  such  levies  made  here  on 
his  good-nature.  There  was  no  nonsense 
about  Mrs.  Marston,  and  when  there  were 
girls  they  talked  together  until  the  fools 
who  like  "girling"  came  up  at  dusk.  These 
were  in  fact  few.  American  flirtation — that 
white  fire  wherein  no  wings  were  singed — 
only  occupation  of  old-fashioned  house- 
parties — exists  no  more.  "  Le  flirt,"  so 
painfully  and  laboriously  emulated  by  the 
Parisienne,  is  to-day  but  spasmodic  and  spec 
tral.  It  is  only  very  ancient  maidens  and 
superannuated  beaux  who  still  wave  the  fan 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART          89 

and  flourish  the  hat  under  the  mosquito  awn 
ings  of  damp  piazzas  and  sunlit  lawns,  or 
whisper  together  in  the  secret  places  of  the 
stairs.  "  Le  flirt  "  is  dead.  "  Le  sport  "  has 
killed  the  pretty  pastime  of  a  frolic  god. 
Young  men  and  maidens,  restless  benedicts, 
and  dissatisfied  matrons  meet  to  measure 
muscle.  They  wrest  from  one  another  the 
prizes  of  Tennis,  Golf,  or  Badminton;  ply 
the  oar,  swim  matches,  jump  fences,  and  chat 
of  the  merits  of  their  "  wheels."  When  this 
is  done,  they  yawn  in  each  other's  faces  and 
turn  for  solace  to  a  cigarette.  .  .  .  and  their 
own  sex.  Wooings  are  brief,  hidden,  and 
end  abruptly  in  rupture  or  at  the  altar. 
They  are  conducted  secretly,  and  the  gen 
tleman  in  particular  is  wondrously  ashamed 
of  himself !  He  is  mortified  at  a  weakness 
which  is  not  a  part  of  "  training! "  Even 
the  girl's  vanity,  if  not  exempt  from  the  de 
sire,  is  innocent  of  the  practice  of  dragging 
her  lover  about  for  her  friends  to  see  tied  up 
in  blue  ribbons.  A  marked  reserve  has  come 
between  the  sexes,  bordering  on  indifference. 
The  heart  flutter,  the  fevered  pulse,  the  ex 
hilarated  brain  are  now  reserved  for  more 
important  tests  of  skill  than  mutual  fascina 
tion. 

Asch  rarely  went  into  the  city,  so  it  was 
just  as  well  his  hostess  should  understand  he 


9o          EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

did  not  propose  to  do  any  day's  work  at 
home.  He  was  probably  the  most  absolutely 
successful  expression  of  entire  selfishness 
that  could  be  conceived.  His  selfishness 
had  reached  a  sublimity  which  made  it  ad 
mirable.  He  never  did  anything  for  his 
friends  whose  houses  he  slept  in,  whose  sta 
bles  he  commanded,  whose  yachts  he  steered 
to  the  havens  of  his  own  desire — no,  not 
even  to  send  a  flower  at  New  Year's  to  their 
wives,  a  toy  at  Christmas-time  to  their  chil 
dren.  In  the  world  he  recognized  no  obli 
gations,  and  would  have  seen  the  daughter 
of  a  favorite  entertainer  partnerless  a  whole 
evening  with  delightful  serenity.  Lavish 
toward  himself,  he  was  parsimonious  toward 
all  others,  never  under  any  provocation  yield 
ing  to  an  impulse  of  generosity.  Yet  women 
of  position  and  of  fastidiousness  coddled, 
petted,  and  continued  to  invite  him  with 
tremulous  assiduity.  This  was  the  more 
remarkable  in  that  men  are  usually  divided 
by  women  into  two  categories,  and  liked  and 
disliked  accordingly:  the  man  with  whom  a 
woman  feels  her  femininity  and  the  man  with 
whom  she  does  not.  The  former  is  desira 
ble,  the  second  is  an  incubus,  a  stop-gap  at 
disappointed  house-parties  or  at  impromptu 
dinner-tables.  These  classes  or  types  have 
their  subdivisions;  the  former,  for  instance, 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART         91 

comprises  the  man  who  is  simply  tempera 
mentally  attractive  to  women  without  effort 
of  his  own,  through  qualities  which  are  more 
guessed  at  than  understood,  and  again 
the  man  who  brings  his  intelligence  to  bear 
upon  his  intercourse  with  women  and  whose 
intellect  is  directed  to  charm  them.  The 
first  pleases,  the  second  holds.  The  first 
attracts,  the  second  captivates,  and  is  incon- 
testably  the  more  dangerous  of  the  two. 
Now,  there  is  no  man  at  this  moment  alive 
with  whom  a  woman  feels  herself  less  a 
woman  than  with  Fenno  Asch.  Wherein 
lies,  then,  the  secret  of  his  success?  There 
are  men  who  have  dared  to  say  that  he  is 
stupid,  but  it  is  a  question  if  persons  who 
can  thus  suck  the  best  from  others,  and  live 
the  parasites  of  an  indulgent  community,  are 
really  dull-witted.  Fenno  Asch  is  certainly 
not  intellectual;  he  is  grossly  ignorant  on 
nearly  all  subjects  of  reputed  importance; 
but  stupid  he  cannot  be.  I  am  myself 
inclined  to  believe  him  extremely  clever. 
Just  now,  when  my  story  touches  him,  he  was 
the  subject  of  peculiar  solicitude.  His  long- 
suffering  mother,  whom  he  had  for  years 
treated  with  a  neglect  and  indifference  un 
paralleled,  whom  he  had  insulted,  ruined 
pecuniarily,  and  deserted,  suddenly  married 
again.  Loud  then  were  Asch's  complaints 


92          EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

and  meanings — "  his  home  "  was  broken  up, 
destroyed.  More  than  ever  must  his  friends 
now  rally  to  his  rescue.  He  did  not  men 
tion  to  them  the  fact  that  his  stepfather  had 
twice  in  one  short  twelve  months  paid  his 
debts;  such  bagatelles  were  only  dwelt  upon 
by  sordid  and  vulgar  minds.  The  women 
shook  their  heads  and  wept  over  him. 
"Dear  Fenno!  poor  Fenno!  What  a  nasty, 
wicked  woman  she  must  be,  for  driving  him 
from  his  rightful  place  at  his  dead  father's 
table!"  They  caressed  him  with  renewed 
ardor — such  ardor,  at  least,  as  he  would  tol 
erate;  he  was  not  himself  ardent. 

Once  Singleton  Ackley  had  permitted 
himself  to  express  doubt  as  to  the  young 
gentleman's  valor  on  the  occasion  of  the 
sinking  of  a  yacht  when  he  had  swum  ashore 
and  allowed  two  women  servants  to  drown  be 
fore  his  eyes.  But  in  an  excited  chorus  the 
ladies  present  reminded  him  that  he  once 
kicked  a  man;  how  then  could  he  be  a  pol 
troon?  Yes,  Mr.  Isham  remembered  it. 
The  victim  had  taken  advice  after  a  feeble 
strike-out  from  the  shoulder  with  which 
some  clubmen,  pouncing  upon  and  drag 
ging  him  away,  had  speedily  interfered. 
He  was  much  smaller  than  Asch.  This  fact 
was  not  dwelt  upon.  He,  the  victim,  had 
himself  carried  in  a  hansom  down  to  the 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART          93 

old  artist's  studio.  Mr.  Isham,  although 
gruff,  was  a  man  of  the  world,  and  was  next 
best  as  an  adviser  to  the  polished  expert, 
Ackley,  who  was  out  of  town.  He  received 
the  youth  with  a  grim  glare  through  his 
gold-rimmed  glasses.  The  occurrence  was 
laid  before  him. 

"  What  ought  I  to  do?  "  asked  the  victim, 
with  a  fretful  whine. 

"Young  man,"  said  Mr.  Isham,  still  glar 
ing,  "there  is  but  one  thing  to  do  under 
the  circumstances — kill  him." 

The  victim  started. 

"Is  not  that  rather  extreme — eh?"  he 
whimpered. 

"  I  've  given  you  advice.  I  've  nothing 
more  to  say." 

"But — er — " 

"  Kill  him  and  go  to  the  devil,  both  of 
you,"  said  Mr.  Isham,  growing  purple,  "for 
the  two  chicken-livered  puppies  that  you 
are!  " 

The  victim  had  prudently  disappeared 
down  the  stairs  with  a  rapidity  unusual  to 
him,  and  had  hidden  himself  away  in  his  cab. 
There  had  been  no  blood  shed. 

"  She 's  the  handsomest  woman  ever  I 
saw,"  said  Mr.  Marston,  coming  up  across 
the  lawn. 

"  How  many  more  times  in  your  life  shall 


94          EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

I  hear  you  use  that  formula,  Mr.  Marston?  " 
asked  May  Plunkett,  appearing  at  the  ball 
room's  glass  door.  She  had  driven  over 
with  her  brother  to  dine.  "Who's  the 
beauty  now?  " 

"  My  farmer's  wife.  I  Ve  just  seen  her 
for  the  first  time." 

"How's  that?" 

"They  came  just  as  we  left." 

"  And  is  she  such  a  stunner?  " 

"Superb!  " 

Fenno  looked  up.  "  What!  that  thin- 
lipped  Yankee  woman  who  has  been  worry 
ing  Mrs.  Marston  here  for  an  hour?  And 
waked  me  up  in  the  best  part  of  my  nap? 
Why,  Marston,  you  must  be  getting  in  your 
dotage!  " 

"  Mr.  Isham  ought  to  paint  her,"  said  May 
Plunkett.  "When  I  went  to  him  he  said  he 
had  done  with  professional  beauties,  that  he 
would  paint  no  more  of  them.  He  wants  to 
get  close  to  nature.  What  a  sweet,  gruff  old 
thing  he  is,  to  be  sure!  " 

The  Marstons  had  been  at  home  only 
twenty-four  hours.  That  very  morning 
young  Archie  had  cantered  up  on  his  mus 
tang  to  the  cottage,  and  in  a  dialogue  with 
Dottie  invited  her  mother  to  the  call  whose 
success  seemed  now  so  problematic. 

The  Chesterfieldian    manner,    the    aristo- 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART          95 

cratic  grace  of  the  ten-year-old  son  of  the 
house  of  Marston  as  he  delivered  his  message 
would  have  surprised  the  ruddy  butcher,  his 
great-grandfather,  when  behind  his  bloody 
apron  he  wielded  his  carving-knife,  cutting 
up  joints,  sirloins,  and  hind-quarters  for  a 
hungry  generation.  It  surprised  Dottie, 
whose  brown  legs  shrank  up  in  alarm,  tuck 
ing  themselves  under  her  short  pink  frock 
while  she  sucked  her  thumb  vigorously,  and 
eyed  the  boy  with  a  measure  of  distrust. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A  few  days  after  the  encounter  of  the  gar 
den,  Monsieur  Rose,  taking  his  evening 
promenade,  strolled  up  to  the  cottage,  in 
tending  to  have  a  chat  with  the  new  farmer 
and  his  handsome  wife.  He  had  sometimes 
offered  a  cigarette  to  the  late  Mr.  Dag- 
gett,  while  Mrs.  Daggett  mixed  for  them  a 
glass  of  excellent  grog.  There  was  affa 
bility  in  his  eye,  geniality  on  his  urbane 
features.  Beth,  from  an  upper  window,  saw 
him  approaching.  Joe,  in  his  shirt-sleeves, 
was  sitting  on  the  porch-step,  smoking  a 
short  clay  pipe.  He  heard  a  rush  above  his 
head  as  if  it  were  the  rustle  of  wings,  then 
through  the  mosquito-bar  of  the  front  par 
lor  casement  a  husky  command  to  "come  in 
at  once  and  shut  the  door  after  him."  Never 
regardless  of  this  particular  master's  orders, 
Joe  prepared  to  obey  with  leisurely  scrupu 
lousness.  As  he  reached  the  narrow  hall 
way  he  was  seized  with  no  very  gentle  hand 
and  huddled  head  foremost  into  the  open 
sitting-room.  His  wife  then  began  a  series 
96 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART         97 

of  signals  and  wild  girations  which  she  found 
herself  finally  obliged  to  translate  into  lan 
guage  if  they  were  to  penetrate  the  hide  of 
Joe's  well-known  obtuseness. 

"  It 's  that  cook,  the  French  fellow,"  she 
said  in  a  tragic  whisper. 

"Well,  now,  is  it?" 

"Hush!  didn't  you  see?  He's  most 
here.  Now,  Joe  Bush,  this  is  to  settle  things. 
Am  I  a  servant  here  or  not?  Am  I  to  as 
sociate  with  cooks,  or  am  I  not?  " 

Joe  stared.  Life  was  assuming  labyrin 
thine  intricacy.  To  his  straight  mind  it  was 
becoming  a  hopeless  entanglement. 

"  Eh?  "     He  was  trying  to  gain  time. 

"  Do  you  expect  me  to  receive  this  .  .  . 
creature  as  my  equal?" 

"  Well  I  never!  I  ain  't  invited  him  to 
call,"  said  Joe  deprecatingly. 

"  You  did  n't!  More  impudent  he  for 
coming  then,  and  so  you  can  tell  him  with 
my  compliments." 

Joe  opened  his  mouth,  and  it  remained 
open,  his  eye  hurtling  about  as  if  seeking  a 
way  of  escape. 

"So  there!  "  His  wife  gave  him  another 
shove  and  flew  past  him  upstairs  to  her  bed 
chamber.  She  closed  and  locked  its  door 
with  a  snap,  as  if  she  feared  the  entire  race 
of  French  chefs,  armed  with  no  honorable 


98          EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

intentions,  were  in  hot  pursuance  at  her 
heels.  The  long-nailed  fingers  of  Monsieur 
Rose  had  already  fallen  on  the  knocker. 

Rap,  rap,  rap. 

Joe  stood  irresolute.     A  silence — 

Rap,  rap,  rap. 

He  cautiously  crept  to  the  window  and 
perred  out. 

"Ah!  Monsieur  Bush,"  said  Monsieur 
Rose,  "comment  $a  va?  Are  you  and 
Madame  at  home?" 

Pearls  of  anguish  beaded  on  Joe's  fore 
head.  He  liked  his  place,  the  poor  fellow! 
It  seemed  a  paradise  to  him.  He  desired 
to  be  on  pleasant  terms  with  everybody,  and 
his  instincts  warned  him  of  the  dangers  of 
this  internecine  warfare.  A  snort  from  his 
wife's  room,  however,  rallied  his  wavering 
spirit. 

"  Wait  a  moment,  Mr.  Pierre,"  he  said 
through  a  chink  of  the  shutter,  "  I  '11  be 
out."  He  stopped  and  put  on  his  coat. 

Monsieur  Rose  himself  was  faultlessly 
dressed.  Joe  greeted  his  visitor,  but  did  not 
offer  him  a  chair. 

"Is  Madame  at  home?  "  repeated  Rose 
gallantly.  "Am  I  disturbing  an  after-sup 
per  tete-a-tete?  Hein?  I  thought  I  heard 
Madame  Bush  speaking.  Surely  I  would 
not  drive  her  away!  " 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART          99 

Joe  lowered  his  tones  to  a  muffled  key. 
"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  Mr.  Pierre,  my  wife 
is  at  home,  but  she  ain't  visible." 

"  It  will  be  for  another  time,"  said  Pierre 
lightly. 

But  Joe  felt  that  these  futile  if  natural 
hopes  had  better  be  instantly  slain.  He 
could  not  bear  a  repetition  of  this  ordeal. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "  I  guess  not." 

Monsieur  Rose  stared,  now  more  than 
puzzled. 

"You  see,"  said  Joe,  confidentially,  "my 
wife  's  peculiar.  She  ain't  used  to  the  ways 
here.  She  ain't  used  to  bein'  friends  " — the 
words  stuck  in  his  throat  and  choked  him; 
all  his  inherent  hospitality  rose  within  him 
in  an  agony  of  protest — "to  bein'  friends 
with  those  as  is  in  service." 

Pierre  was  beginning  to  understand. 

"You  mean  to  tell  me,  Monsieur  Bush," 
he  said,  "that  your  wife  sends  me  this  mes 
sage — that  I  am  dismissed?  Do  you  know, 
Monsieur  Bush,  that  she  \sdiablement  imper 
tinent,  is  your  wife,  Monsieur  Bush?" 

Joe's  head  oscillated  from  side  to  side 
with  a  rotary  motion,  like  some  planet  set 
loose  from  its  orbit. 

Pierre  drew  himself  up  with  a  jerk,  bring 
ing  his  heels  together  with  a  click. 

"  Now,"  said  Joe,  blandly  conciliatory,  "/ 


ioo        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

think  she  's  wrong.  I  myself  ain't  got  any 
such  notions.  I  'm  for  bein'  sociable  with 
everybody,  high  or  low,  rich  or  poor.  I  '11 
always  be  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Pierre." 

For  a  moment  Pierre  had  meant  to  strike 
him.  Now  as  he  met  the  man's  sad  regard, 
a  sudden  comprehension  of  his  predicament, 
an  odd  emotion  bordering  upon  compassion 
forced  his  hand  back  into  his  pocket,  and, 
without  another  word  and  only  a  low  whistle, 
he  turned  on  his  heel. 

The  splendid  courage  and  the  base 
cowardice  of  Joe's  performance  pierced  his 
keen  Gallic  intelligence,  filling  him  with  a 
species  of  admiration  and  pity. 

"  Sacre  tonnerre"  he  muttered  to  himself. 
"En  voila  un  qui  a  trouvt  une  megere." 

When  Beth  returned  from  her  first  visit 
to  the  big  house,  three  weeks  later,  it  is 
probable  she  had  forgotten  this  episode. 
But  Joe  had  not.  When  he  remembered  it 
the  cold  perspiration  gathered  under  his 
round  shoulder-blades. 

The  day  after  her  call  upon  Mrs.  Marston 
she  asked  her  husband  to  have  her  conveyed 
to  the  station,  as  she  desired  to  go  into  the 
city  to  make  some  purchases.  She  would 
take  Dottie  with  her,  and  begged  her  hus 
band  to  give  her  twenty-five  dollars.  He 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        101 

gave  the  money  with  his  usual  unquestion 
ing  docility. 

She  returned  in  the  evening  with  a  blue 
gingham,  exactly  the  same  shade  as  Mrs. 
Marston's,  a  pair  of  long,  loose,  tan  suede 
gloves,  a  parasol  trimmed  with  lace,  a  pink 
paper  lamp-shade  with  a  rose  on  it,  a  glass 
vase  for  flowers,  a  locket  for  Dottie,  and  a 
sailor  hat  for  herself.  Dottie  was  carrying 
an  enormous  bundle.  It  proved,  when  un 
packed,  to  be  a  mandolin,  tied  with  a  wide 
bow  of  mauve  satin  ribbon.  She  explained 
to  Joe's  astonished  query  that  Mr.  Oakes 
was  a  fine  performer  on  this  instrument,  and 
had  offered  to  give  her  lessons. 

During  those  brief  moments  passed  in 
Mrs.  Marston's  drawing-rooms,  no  detail  of 
their  luxury  had  escaped  Beth's  searching 
eye.  She  had  returned  to  her  abode  with  a 
sense  of  discouragement  and  of  dismay.  Her 
aggressive  conduct — poor  Beth  did  not  know 
that  in  the  great  world  no  one  is  aggressive 
unless  under  penalty  of  instant  expulsion — 
had  seemed  to  make  her  at  least  partially 
victress  in  an  encounter  she  felt  to  have  been 
a  duel.  She  now  set  about  altering  the 
arrangements  of  her  domain.  She  pulled 
the  chairs  out  from  the  wall,  and  set  them 
here  and  there,  awry — an  incommodious 


102        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

method  for  the  lumbering  Joseph,  who  fell 
over  them  and  bumped  himself  twenty  times 
a  day.  She  put  the  pink  shade  on  her  brass 
lamp,  and  filled  the  flower-vase  with  roses. 
She  opened  the  slat  of  one  shutter,  and 
allowed  a  ray  of  light  to  enter.  If  it  faded 
the  carpet  "  it  could  not  be  helped,"  she  told 
herself  with  desperate  recklessness.  She 
confiscated  the  family  Bible  and  put  two  old 
magazines  in  its  place,  while  the  mandolin, 
with  its  satin  embellishment,  was  displayed 
in  the  most  prominent  corner  of  the  apart 
ment.  She  had  seen  such  a  one  in  Mrs. 
Marston's  boudoir.  These  things  done,  she 
set  about  making  unto  herself  the  gingham 
frock  almost  as  exactly  like  Mrs.  Marston's 
as  she  could  well  remember.  The  sailor  hat 
was  distinctly  unbecoming  to  her  severe  cast 
of  physiognomy.  Nevertheless,  she  perched 
it  upon  the  top  of  her  thick  hair,  which, 
from  being  neatly  brushed  back,  she  now 
pulled  and  crimped  into  a  loose  lock  falling 
almost  to  meet  her  large,  shapely  nose.  This 
change  of  coiffure  and  the  hat  gave  her  face 
a  hardness,  a  boldness,  which  Joe  had  never 
seen  there.  He  sighed,  but  he  said  nothing. 
She  had  spent  all  the  money  he  had  given  her. 
If  Monsieur  Rose  was  not  admitted,  Mr. 
Oakes,  on  the  contrary,  was  welcomed  with 
almost  overwhelming  cordiality.  He  and 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        103 

Floribel  Pullen  were  invited  to  tea  at  six 
o'clock  one  evening,  over  which  meal  Mrs. 
Bush  presided  in  her  new  blue  costume,  with 
Dottie  at  her  elbow  in  a  clean  starched  pina 
fore  with  yellow  ribbons  at  her  shoulders 
and  the  locket  depending  from  her  little 
brown  throat.  Mr.  Oakes  repeated  his  visit, 
and  was  again  invited  to  tea.  Even  social 
istic  young  schoolmasters,  afflicted  with  a 
chronic  form  of  dyspepsia,  like  cleanly  and 
well-set  tables,  and  it  must  be  said  that, 
while  Beth  was  rather  an  indifferent  cook  of 
meats  and  vegetables,  her  pastry,  biscuits, 
and  preserves  were  of  the  best.  Mr.  Oakes, 
at  any  rate,  added  materially  to  his  dys 
pepsia  in  their  consumption,  pressing  Dottie 
closely  in  the  race.  Beth  had  meant  to  say 
a  word  to  her  husband  of  her  first  visit  to 
Mrs.  Marston,  surcharged  as  it  had  been  to 
her  in  emotional  experiences;  but  when  at 
the  first  syllable  she  met  his  dull  stolidity,  it 
was  borne  in  upon  her  that  there  was  noth 
ing  to  relate — nothing  to  tell.  Her  own 
consciousness  became  as  blank  as  his. 
Explanation  seemed  impossible.  One  per 
son,  however,  she  found  able  to  gauge  these 
subtler  springs  of  feeling.  Tentatively,  al 
most  timidly,  she  ventured  to  speak  of  them; 
of  her  pride,  her  sense  of,  and  desire  for, 
equality  with  the  best,  her  ambitions  for  her 


io4        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

child.  She  found  herself  instantly  compre 
hended.  No  circumlocution  was  necessary. 
Mr.  Oakes  understood.  To  a  woman  this  is 
precious.  To  prepare  for  hours,  mayhap 
days,  a  phrase,  a  word  intended  to  electrify 
a  particular  pair  of  male  ears  and  have  it  ac 
corded  scant  attention  or  met  with  careless 
misapprehension,  is  one  of  those  minor  trials 
which  secretly  gnaw  feminine  fortitude.  The 
subjects  which  so  tormented  her  filled  his 
mind  too,  it  seemed.  Whenever  they  met, 
they  soon  turned  to  these  topics  pregnant  to 
them  with  meaning.  They  fanned  in  each 
other's  hearts  their  discontent  and  envy  over 
which,  I  have  said,  the  evil  spirits  which 
dwelt  within  them  had  already  clasped 
hands.  As  was  but  natural,  the  man's  influ 
ence,  being  that  of  a  certain  culture,  was  far 
the  stronger.  He  lent  her  books  which,  be 
tween  the  enforced  tasks  of  her  household, 
she  read  with  strange  avidity.  He  would 
come  of  an  evening  and,  while  Joe  puffed 
his  stump  of  a  pipe  on  the  porch,  under  the 
pink  lamp-shade, — already,  alas!  grown  spot 
ted  and  soiled, — their  heads  bentclose,  Oakes 
would  explain  to  Mrs.  Bush  intricate  pas 
sages.  The  books  were  all  in  the  same  strain. 
Strong  pleas  against  authority,  cries  of  revolt, 
protests  against  tyranny  and  oppression,  sta 
tistics  of  unutterable  cruelties,  crimes,  mis- 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        105 

cries,  stern  facts  about  a  groaning  multitude 
while  a  few  feasted;  a  bold  scoffing  at  all 
religious  teaching,  shifting  kaleidoscopes  of 
horror  and  despair;  above  all  Reason,  with 
its  Ego,  which  will  be  heard  and  satisfied; 
the  individual  unwilling  to  be  flattened  in  the 
mortar  of  humanity,  mocking  at  patience. 
From  the  perusal  of  these  works  Beth  rose 
tottering,  uncertain,  bewildered;  a  gradual 
loosening  of  all  her  old  faiths,  a  slow  but 
sure  deletion  of  all  her  former  beliefs  went 
on  in  her  soul,  which  seemed  to  shrivel  within 
her.  Her  teacher  was  too  young  and  too 
inexperienced  to  appreciate  the  peril  of  sow 
ing  such  seed  in  such  a  soil.  By  a  gradual 
disintegration  her  wish  to  rise  was  giving  way 
before  his  dispiriting  forebodings  of  general 
destruction.  She  felt  within  her  the  rum 
blings  of  a  distant,  brewing,  tempest.  Her 
arm  was  a  strong  one;  could  it  accomplish 
nothing?  The  sense  of  a  hopeless  doom  en 
veloped  her.  Sometimes  at  night  it  laid  a 
cold  hand  on  her  heart.  In  the  meanwhile 
Joe,  having  said  a  short  but  fervent  prayer, 
lay  on  his  back,  snoring  loudly,  enjoying  the 
repose  due  to  the  just. 

"What  do  you  think  of  Mrs.  Bush?"  Mr. 
Marston  had  asked  his  wife,  after  the  first 
interview. 


106        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

"  I  don't  make  her  out  exactly,"  said 
Lola.  "  She  was  rather  pretentious  and 
dressed  up  for  a  farmer's  wife.  Americans 
are  so  absurd  in  such  matters.  I  confess  I 
liked  Mrs.  Daggett  better.  She  did  n't  put 
on  airs." 

"  O,  she  was  well  enough,  but  old  Dag 
was  such  a  brute  of  a  drunkard.  It 's  just  as 
well  his  last  spree  killed  him.  This  man 
seems  steady  and  honest.  I  rather  want 
him  to  stay;  so  if  she  has  crotchets,  concili 
ate  them  a  little,  my  dear." 

"  Why,  I  'm  sure,  darling,"  said  Mrs.  Mar- 
ston,  "  I  'm  always  nice  to  servants.  By  the 
way,  there  is  already  some  row.  The 
domestics  say  she  snubs  them,  and  refuses 
to  be  on  visiting  terms.  There  's  been  some 
fuss  with  Pierre." 

"What  difference  can  that  make?  There 
was  too  much  running  too  and  fro  in  Dag- 
gett's  time  with  the  men  and  maids.  I 
did  n't  like  it.  If  she  's  reserved,  so  much 
the  better.  There  '11  be  less  gossiping." 

"And  she's  quite  dissatisfied  with  the 
cottage.  Says  she  wants  a  new  kitchen 
and  veranda,  like  ours."  Mrs.  Marston 
laughed. 

"  O,  well,  perhaps  this  autumn  I  '11  put 
out  a  small  wing  for  them.  It  is  cramped; 
and  while  the  builders  are  here  I  don't  care 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        107 

if  they  knock  up  a  piazza,  for  her  at  the  east 
of  the  house." 

Mr.  Marston  preferred  expense  to  per 
sonal  trouble. 

"  I  '11  tell  her  what  you  say,  Archie.  Per 
haps  she  '11  be  more  contented." 

There  were  always  men  at  work  upon  the 
place.  They  were  now  putting  up  an  elabo 
rate  fence  to  divide  pasturage  from  wood 
land. 

Mrs.  Marston,  remembering  her  husband's 
words,  signified  to  Mrs.  Bush  upon  the  fol 
lowing  morning  that  she  would  again  receive 
her.  Beth  once  more  put  on  her  parapher 
nalia  of  war.  It  was  now  the  blue  gown  and 
the  sailor  hat.  She  burned  her  front  lock 
off  with  the  tongs,  which  it  is  to  be  sup 
posed  did  not  sweeten  her  temper  or  im 
prove  her  appearance. 

Thus  shorn  but  not  baffled,  she  was 
ushered  into  the  library.  This  lofty  apart 
ment  always  seemed  somewhat  over-fur 
nished  and  encumbered.  There  were  too 
many  chairs,  too  many  bookcases,  too  much 
bric-a-brac,  entirely  too  many  lamps,  which 
were  overtall  and  overshaded.  Lola  never 
felt  quite  at  home  in  it.  Indeed  there  were 
many  parts  of  the  house  whose  decorations 
delighted  her  husband,  but  made  her  uneasy. 
They  fretted  her  eyes  with  their  elaboration, 


io8        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

their  lack  of  repose.  More  poetic  than 
artistic,  she  lacked,  however,  that  individu 
ality  of  taste  which  finds  an  instant  remedy. 
She  was  sometimes  a  little  helpless  amid  her 
splendors. 

Mrs.  Bush  found  her  in  a  high-backed  gilt 
chair,  her  feet  on  a  velvet  cushion,  reading. 
She  wore  a  peignoir  of  some  flexile  texture, 
rose-colored,  cut  in  Greek  fashion,  with 
flowing  sleeves  slashed  at  the  shoulders, 
displaying  her  slender  arms.  It  was  bor 
dered  by  bands  of  rich  creamy  Valenciennes 
laces,  clasped  at  the  throat  and  waist  with 
buckles  of  pearls.  On  her  fingers  sparkled 
many  splendid  gems.  Her  head  was  crowned 
by  a  large  black  hat  surmounted  by  dusky 
tufts  of  ostrich  feathers.  Her  eyes  were 
deep  as  quiet  lakes  sleeping  in  shadow. 
Asch  was  lounging  on  a  stool  at  her  feet,  but 
scrambled  up  at  Mrs.  Bush's  entrance  and 
escaped. 

All  the  old  worship  which  Beth  had  once 
felt  for  this  woman  while  still  unknown,  and 
which  more  recent  sentiments  were  quickly 
stifling,  now  woke  within  her.  A  healthful 
admiration  for  her  loveliness  suddenly  mas 
tered  her. 

"  You  look  just  like  a  picture,  Mrs.  Mar- 
ston." 


CHAPTER  IX 

Lola  blushed.  "  Really?  "  she  said,  smil 
ing,  "you  are  very  kind  to  tell  me  so,  Mrs. 
Bush,  if  it  is  a  pretty  picture.  Sit  down 
here  by  me.  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

"  You  look  just  like  you  used  in  my 
dreams." 

"  Your  dreams?  " 

"  Yes,"  went  on  Beth,  catching  her  breath 
and  with  a  nervous  twitching  of  her  hands. 
"  I  dreamed  about  you  before  ever  I  saw 
you.  I  'd  read  about  you  for  years  in  the 
newspapers." 

"  O,  those  dreadful  newspapers!  " 

"  They  ain  't  dreadful  to  those  as  lives 
dull  lives,"  said  Beth,  forgetting  all  her 
former  Pontifex  boastfulness.  "  They  bring 
'em  into  life." 

Something  in  her  hurried  utterances  ar 
rested  Lola's  attention.  She  had  not 
guessed  her  to  be  dramatic. 

"  I  never  even  look  at  those  things  about 
people.  I  don't  care  much  for  that  side  of 
life." 

109 


no        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

"  No,  you  live  it,"  said  Beth. 

"  And  I  can  assure  you,  Mrs.  Bush,"  went 
on  Lola,  laughing,  "  that  it  is  much  more 
amusing  to  read  about,  and  sounds  much 
nicer  than  it  is.  A  great  deal  of  it  is  a 
horrid  nuisance." 

"  Mr.  Oakes  says,"  said  Beth,  "  that  the 
rich  say  that  to  keep  the  poor  quiet,  to  keep 
'em  grinding  and  sweating,  while  they  dance 
and  make  merry." 

"Ah?     Mr.  Oakes?" 

"  Yes,  he  's  a  young  gentleman  as  visits 
us  here." 

Mrs.  Bush's  momentary  naturalness  gave 
place  once  more  to  her  artificial  "  company  " 
manner.  Her  mouth  pursed  itself.  Her 
tone  became  prolonged  and  nasal.  Her 
backbone  snapped  into  rigid  line. 

"  A  friend  of  mine.  He  's  real  smart. 
He  reads  with  me  evenings.  He  's  teaching 
me  the  mandolin." 

It  is  hoped  that  Lola's  heroic  efforts  not 
to  laugh  outright,  a  desire  to  which  the 
exact  imitation  of  her  costume  had  already 
given  wings,  was  not  evident.  She  made 
a  grimace  behind  her  hand  to  recover  the 
equilibrium  of  a  sufficient  gravity  before 
replying. 

"O,  yes.  I 've  heard  of  him.  He 's  very 
nice-looking.  He  has  queer  ideas,  has  he 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        in 

not?  I  heard  he  was  leaving  here  on 
account  of  them.  That  he  was  a  .  .  a  .  . 
socialist — or  something." 

"  He  only  took  the  place  just  for  a  while 
until  he  got  suited."  Beth's  vocal  organs 
were  more  and  more  languorous.  "  He 
ain  't  at  all  like  the  people  around  here. 
He 's  above  'em.  He  says  the  socialistic 
doctrines  will  soon  invade  the  world." 

"  Dear  me!  " 

"  You  ought  to  think  him  nice-looking, 
Mrs.  Marston,  for  I  guess  he  admires  you 
very  much. 

A  few  days  before,  Oakes  had  asked 
Beth's  permission  to  read  aloud  to  her  an 
original  poem  which  he  intended  to  set  to 
music  for  the  mandolin.  The  verses  were 
addressed  "To  Lola,"  and  were  a  painstak 
ing  imitation  of  De  Musset's  "  Andalouses," 
of  which  its  author  had  lately  made  an  ex 
haustive  study  in  the  original.  Oakes,  with 
praiseworthy  industry,  had  taught  himself 
to  read  French.  The  opening  words  of  the 
love  ditty  were,  "  Pale  as  an  autumn  night." 

"  Why,  that 's  quaint!  It 's  Mrs.  Marston's 
first  name,"  Beth  said  suspiciously. 

"  A  mere  incident — it 's  a  common  enough 
Spanish  name,"  the  schoolmaster  answered. 

Then  they  had  spoken  together  of  Mrs. 
Marston,  and  Beth  noticed  that  the  sneer 


ii2        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

which  met  her  mention  of  every  member  of 
that  high-life  circle  which  so  filled  her  with 
curiosity,  and  which  she  so  envied,  had  died 
on  his  lips.  He  had  said  little,  but  Beth, 
who  was  observing,  made  a  mental  note. 
She  expatiated  to  Oakes  on  Fenno  Asch's 
incredible  impoliteness,  not  only  to  herself 
but  to  Mrs.  Marston. 

"  He  ain  't  civil  enough  to  bow  to  a  woman 
if  he  goes  by  her,  and  he  don't  know  enough 
to  open  a  door  for  her." 

And  then  with  energy  Oakes  had  again 
applied  to  him  that  epithet  of  "bull-calf," 
which  secretly  delighted  Elizabeth. 

"  He  admires  you  very  much." 

Lola  was  quite  serious  now.  She  could 
hardly  recover  her  speech,  so  disconcerted 
and  nettled  was  she.  Why  this  woman  was 
quite  too  dreadful. 

"  I  'm  sure  I  'm  greatly  obliged  to  him, 
but  I  hardly  fancied  he  would  be  so  ... 
presumptuous."  She  rose  and  walked  to 
the  window. 

Beth  saw  she  had  committed  some  fateful 
blunder,  and  a  purple  flush  dyed  her  brow, 
which  the  burned  lovelock  left  lorn  and  ex 
posed.  In  a  moment  Mrs.  Marston  had 
turned  around  again. 

"  I  sent  for  you  this  morning,  Mrs.  Bush," 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        113 

she  spoke  in  a  business-like  voice,  "  to  say 
that  I  mentioned  to  Mr.  Marston  about  those 
improvements  over  your  way,  and  he  con 
sents.  The  new  piazza  will  be  begun  next 
week — the  kitchen,  later." 

Beth,  who  had  never  known  before  such 
comfort  as  she  now  enjoyed,  and  who  had 
almost  forgotten  her  request,  opened  her 
eyes  widely,  and  could  only  murmur  her 
thanks.  Mrs.  Marston  hoped  she  would  go, 
but  her  visitor  still  sat  on  the  edge  of  her 
chair,  embarrassed,  fidgeting,  caught  in  the 
difficulty  of  the  departure  whose  mesh  tan 
gles  the  uninitiated.  Lola  was  beating  an 
impatient  tattoo  on  the  parquet  floor  with 
her  high-heeled  shoe.  The  situation  was 
becoming  intolerable. 

"Will  your  family  visit  you?  Do  you 
expect  them  here?"  she  asked  at  last,  in  a 
dry,  staccato  voice. 

"  I  wrote  my  sister-in-law  and  her  hus 
band,"  said  Beth,  recovering  her  composure, 
"to  come  up  Tuesday.  I  guess  they'll  be 
glad  to.  They  ain't  been  married  long." 

After  a  few  more  questions  about  her 
relatives,  she  did  finally  get  herself  out. 

"  She  's  entirely  a  new  experience,"  said 
Lola  that  evening  to  her  lord.  "  I  doubt  if 
they'll  do." 

"Why,  how?"  he  asked. 


ii4       EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

"  O,  she  says  such  extraordinary,  such 
unsuitable  things  to  me.  I  can't  make  out 
if  it 's  ignorance  or  impertinence." 

"  A  little  of  both,  I  should  imagine,"  said 
Fenno  Asch.  "  I  met  her  on  the  road  this 
morning.  Whew!  She  looks  a  vixen!  " 

Lola  lay  back  on  her  cushions  and  laughed. 

"You  can't  imagine — the  funniest  thing — 
I  nearly  fell  off  my  chair  when  she  came  in. 
She  has  exactly  copied  my  old  blue  ging 
ham,  and  wore  a  hat  just  like  mine.  She 
looked  like  a  guy." 

"What  sort  of  things  does  she  say?" 
asked  her  husband;  but  Lola  did  not  tell 
him. 

As  to  Beth  her  whole  mind  was  in  a  fer 
ment.  Her  speech,  which  Mrs.  Marston 
had  rebuked  and  now  forgotten,  burned  her 
as  with  a  hot  iron.  "Presumptuous";  she 
looked  up  the  word  in  the  thumbed  diction 
ary  she  had  used  at  school,  to  make  sure 
she  was  not  mistaken.  Should  she  tell 
Oakes — brand  him,  too,  with  this  insult? 
Then  there  were  evidently  mistakes  as  to  the 
laws  of  fitness.  Why  did  Mrs.  Marston  wear 
soiled  cotton  gowns  of  an  afternoon  at  five 
o'clock  and  appear  so  splendid  of  a  morn 
ing?  Why  did  she  read  when  other  women 
worked,  and  work  when  others  read?  Was 
it  true  what  she  had  said  that  the  life  she 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        115 

lived  looked  sweeter  than  it  was?  To  Beth 
it  looked  very  sweet.  To  Beth  the  Mar- 
stons'  library,  with  which  fastidious  critics 
found  fault,  was  an  apartment  of  imposing 
and  unparalleled  magnificence.  Her  vanity, 
which  somehow  this  woman's  mere  presence 
seemed  to  excite  and  fan  only  to  grind  to 
dust,  rallied  a  little  at  the  thought  of  her 
sister-in-law's  impending  visit.  Before  Mary 
Bush,  now  Mrs.  Bucknell,  she  could  pose  to 
her  heart's  content.  The  word  was  unknown 
to  her,  the  attitude  was  becoming  clear. 
She  could  dazzle  her  at  least.  There  had 
been  no  lamp-shades  in  Pontifex,  Dottie  had 
been  decked  with  no  locket  and  yellow  rib 
bons,  there  had  been  no  vase  of  roses,  and, 
beyond  all,  no  Mr.  Oakes.  She  planned,  and 
plotted,  and  arranged  how  she  could  at  once 
startle  and  petrify  the  Bucknells  with  the 
glories  of  her  present  lot.  It  was  Wednes 
day — they  would  not  arrive  until  the  Tues 
day  following — and  this  gave  Beth  five  days 
in  which  to  prepare  her  coup.  Again  on 
Thursday  she  had  herself  carried  into  town. 
This  time  she  went  alone.  She  could  not 
be  troubled  with  the  child.  She  took  a 
horse-car  from  the  crowded  ferry,  and  was 
jogged  across  the  city  to  the  precincts  of 
Sixth  Avenue.  Here  she  alighted  to  walk. 
One  after  the  other,  she  passed  the  shops  of 


n6        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

dry  goods  and  novelties,  ribbons,  lingerie, 
and  the  mysterious  product  known  as  "  neck 
wear."  She  reached  finally  one  whose  di 
mensions  and  importance  seemed  to  suggest 
what  she  required.  She  was  speedily  at  the 
dress-goods  counter.  She  spied  a  piece  of 
rose  silk  crepe-de-chine  in  the  niche  be 
hind  the  clerk's  head  which  satisfied  all  her 
longings. 

"  How  much  is  this  a  yard?  "  she  asked, 
fingering  eagerly  the  clinging  folds  which 
he  unrolled  before  her. 

"This  comes  expensive,  ma'am,"  said  the 
clerk.  "  It 's  four  dollars." 

"Four  dollars!  And  only  single  width! 
Why,  it's  terrible  high!" 

"That's  so;"  the  clerk  gave  an  imper 
sonal  shrug.  "  There  's  cheaper  cashmeres 
in  the  same  shades  at  the  next  counter." 

"Show  them  to  me,  please." 

They  were  much  coarser,  thicker,  more 
opaque,  and  still  very  exorbitant  in  price. 
She  hesitated  for  some  time,  but  at  last 
recklessly  came  to  terms.  This  dress  must 
have  a  train,  and  she  measured  two  extra 
yards  for  the  flowing  sleeve.  Then  there 
was  the  lining,  two  yards  and  a  half  of 
pink  ribbon,  and  the  lace!  At  the  thought 
of  the  lace  her  courage  flagged.  She  priced 
a  piece  which  she  admired  lying  on  a  pile 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        117 

of  tulle.  The  clerk  informed  her  it  was  five 
dollars  a  yard,  but,  seeing  her  dilemma, 
presented  her  with  some  at  sixty  cents 
which  he  said  would  do  for  summer  wear. 
Upon  Mrs.  Marston's  tea-gown  there  had 
been  fully  a  dozen  yards  of  a  very  different 
quality  from  this  cheap  stuff.  Even  Beth, 
who  could  not  distinguish  real  lace  from  imi 
tation,  felt  convinced.  She  compromised 
by  buying  five  yards. 

"  It  ain't  needed  on  the  train,"  she  said 
to  herself. 

The  next  few  days  were  employed  in  the 
fabrication  of  a  Greek  garment  such  as 
should  make  Mary  Bucknell's  eyes  dart 
from  their  sockets  and  her  mouth  water. 
She  hesitated  about  the  bare  arms.  Hers 
were  very  dark,  rather  thin,  and  there  was 
down  on  them.  No,  she  did  not  dare.  Not 
before  the  men,  the  farm-hands,  her  husband. 
Blind  as  she  was,  she  did  stop  short  here. 
It  could  not  be  risked.  She  filled  the  inter 
stices  with  white  muslin.  The  effect  was 
peculiar,  but  she  thought  passable.  She 
had  also  purchased  a  wide  black  hat,  and 
she  surmounted  it  with  two  high  plumes,  as 
Mrs.  Marston's  had  been  surmounted  by  a 
half-dozen,  and  a  bow  of  ribbon.  It  was 
more  becoming  to  her  than  the  sailor  one. 
During  these  preparations  the  cottage  meals 


n8        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

were  more  or  less  irregular.  One  night 
Dottie  and  Joe  went  to  bed  supperless,  and 
it  is  certain  that  Joe  churned  the  butter  and 
saw  to  the  hens. 

Beth,  in  poking  about  the  cowhouse  one 
day  after  some  eggs  a  vagabond  hen  had 
hidden  there,  caught  sight  of  an  old  gilded 
harness  hanging  on  a  peg,  evidently  dis 
carded  by  the  coachman.  Its  meretricious 
glitter  caught  her  fancy.  She  came  home 
and  indited  a  carefully  written  letter  to  Mrs. 
Marston  in  which  she  asked  permission  to 
use  this  harness  with  the  family  carry-all. 
She  got  Mr.  Oakes  to  correct  the  grammar 
and  expression  of  her  screed,  and  when  it 
was  completed  it  was  worthy  of  Madame  de 
Sevigne.  She  signed  it  "  Mrs.  Elizabeth  B. 
Bush."  Her  messenger,  the  shepherd-boy, 
returned  with  a  brief  word  scratched  across 
a  card.  It  told  her  hastily  that  she  was  wel 
come  to  the  harness  if  it  was  all  right  with 
the  coachman,  as  Mrs.  Marston  knew  noth 
ing  about  it.  This  was  signed,  "Truly 
yours,  Lola  Marston." 

For  nearly  an  hour  Beth  pondered  over 
this  missive.  Was  this  the  sort  of  letter 
grand  ladies  wrote  to  each  other,  or  was  its 
curtness  a  fresh  slight  especially  directed  to 
herself  ?  Then  there  was  the  signature ; 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        119 

this  certainly  was  friendly, —  "Truly  yours, 
Lola  Marston." 

In  a  note  to  Floribel  Pullen  she  signed 
herself,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  "  Beth 
Bush."  It  was  hazardous,  but  at  all  events 
she  would  risk  it.  She  was  burning  her 
ships,  and  concluded  that  whatever  she  did 
would  be  wrong.  A  certain  audacity  seemed 
the  safer  mean. 

Floribel  Pullen  gladly  accepted  her  invi 
tation  to  supper.  Beth  was  torn  between 
her  desire  to  exhibit  Miss  Pullen  to  the 
Bucknells,  and  a  slight  dismay  at  the  thought 
that  the  Bucknells  must  be  shown  to  Miss 
Pullen.  Azubel,  the  brother-in-law,  was  not 
elegant. 

"  My  sister-in-law's  real  plain,"  she  said 
to  her  at  church  on  the  Sunday.  "  I  can't 
say  as  she  's  dressy,  but  they  're  used  to  the 
best  society  down  in  Pontifex.  They  're 
old-fashioned,  but  they  're  used  to  comfort 
and  going  with  the  best." 

Mrs.  Bucknell's  plainness,  she  felt,  could 
thus  be  made  to  appear  mere  eccentricity,  a 
vagary  of  an  otherwise  distinguished  person. 
In  this  aspect  it  became  a  distinction.  For 
Azubel  she  felt  it  wiser  not  to  apologize. 

Floribel  had  felt  a  little  left  out  in  the 
cold  during  Mrs.  Bush's  and  the  school- 


120        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

master's  philosophic  studies.  She  herself 
was  not  philosophical.  She  liked  fun,  flat 
tery,  and  to  be  made  love  to.  Percival 
Oakes  found  Elizabeth's  tremulous  uplook- 
ing  held  a  charm  which  Floribel's  comrade 
ship  had  lacked.  His  and  Beth's  vanities, 
which  were  not  frivolous,  were  more  success 
fully  complementary.  They  had  something 
better  to  do  than  to  make  love. 

The  golden  harness  was  duly  polished, 
and  did  service  bravely  over  the  farm  team. 
Joe  mopped  his  brow,  put  on  his  Sunday 
coat,  and  went  to  the  station  to  meet  his 
relations.  When  they  reached  the  cottage, 
after  their  hot  drive,  the  sound  of  music 
agreeably  titillated  their  ears.  As  they 
entered  the  parlor  this  was  the  tableau  that 
met  their  surprised  glance.  Sitting  on  a  tall 
chair  with  a  cushion  behind  her,  and  another 
under  her  feet,  was  the  lady  of  the  house. 
On  her  head  was  a  large  hat,  surmounted 
with  nodding  plumage.  She  was  dressed  in 
strange  garments,  flowing  and  rose-colored, 
trimmed  here  and  fastened  there  with  lace 
and  ribbons.  At  her  feet,  in  a  recumbent  but 
slightly  cramped  position,  sat,  or  rather 
crouched,  Mr.  Oakes.  He  was  picking  at 
the  mandolin.  His  performance  was  occa 
sionally  interrupted  by  the  sound  of  sobs 
and  screams  from  the  upper  floor,  the  evident 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        121 

protest  of  a  person  in  pain.      It  was  in  fact 
-  Dottie. 

Ten  minutes  before  the  entree  of  her  rela 
tives  Dottie  had  broken  the  only  flower-vase, 
spilling  the  water  over  her  best  dress  and 
yellow  ribbons,  and  scattering  its  roses  pell- 
mell  to  the  carpet.  By  turns  indulged  to 
excess,  or  severely  disciplined  by  her  foolish 
mother,  Dottie  was  an  exceedingly  disagree 
able  little  girl.  She  had  willfully  and  dis 
obediently  pushed  the  table  near  which  she 
had  been  forbidden  to  play.  She  was  now 
paying  the  penalty  of  her  crimes  in  bed, 
undressed,  and  locked  up.  This  unlooked- 
for  contretemps  had  rendered  the  tranquil  and 
ideal  scene  which  met  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Buck- 
nell's  astonishment  a  trifle  difficult,  but  Beth 
was  learning  to  surmount  dilemma. 


CHAPTER  X 

Lola  Marston  often  left  her  gay  guests  to 
their  own  pastimes  in  the  long  evenings,  and 
escaped  from  them  to  the  upper  air  of  her 
balcony.  She  would  linger  here  for  awhile, 
glad  of  a  few  brief  moments  in  the  soft  sum 
mer  air,  glad  of  the  rest  from  their  jests  which 
sometimes  wearied  her;  of  their  merriment, 
which  sometimes  jarred.  She  would  lean 
out  and  gaze  across  the  wide  plateau  to  the 
woods  beyond,  whose  dim  outline  rose  un 
real  and  shadowy  under  a  myriad  stars. 
The  smell  of  the  dark  orange  trees,  the 
glimmer  of  the  statues,  the  vocal  melodies 
of  air  and  nature  reminded  her  of  Italy, 
where  she  had  spent  some  years  of  child 
hood.  She  liked  to  draw  into  her  lungs  the 
acrid  perfume  of  the  leaves,  the  distant  odor 
of  the  tides,  which  blew  across  the  marsh 
lands.  She  liked  to  lose  herself  in  the  soft 
lapping  silences,  in  the  cool  stillness  of  the 
dusk.  She  was  a  little  tired — tired  of  talk, 
of  badinage,  of  light. 

Oakes,  passing  by  one  night,  skirting  the 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        123 

grove  of  locusts,  through  which  a  path  had 
lured  him  from  his  direct  homeward  way, 
looking  up,  saw  her.  The  rules  of  etiquette 
were  not  well  known  to  this  intruder,  and 
yet  a  form  of  pride,  akin  to  finer  instincts 
which  guide  the  civilized,  had  thus  far 
guarded  him  from  willing  trespassing.  Far 
down  within  his  soul  he  knew  full  well  that 
his  assiduous  visits  at  the  cottage  sprang 
from  a  secret  wish  to  be  brought  nearer  to 
the  mistress  of  the  castle.  He  had  ceased  to 
desire  to  see  Mrs.  Marston.  He  desired  that 
she  should  see  him.  Recognize  him  she 
must,  admit  his  existence,  be  forced  to  know 
he  had  a  name,  his  own  name,  not  some 
other  man's.  This  curious  obsession  is  less 
uncommon  than  we  imagine — this  passion 
ate  craving  for  a  place  in  the  regard  of  one 
who  represents  a  world  apart  from  us,  be 
yond  and  inaccessible.  Her  approval,  at 
least  her  notice,  had  waxed  of  infinite  im 
portance  to  the  phantasies  of  his  sick  mind. 
Her  world!  how  far  from  his!  And  why? 
He  ground  his  teeth  when  he  remembered 
how  small  he  seemed  to  it,  fit  only  to  be 
trodden  into  insignificant  obscurity.  This 
longing  to-night  had  grown  into  positive 
pain,  and  when  he  saw  the  distant  flutter  of 
her  draperies  he  boldly  struck  the  footpath 
which  came  so  nigh  the  house  that  he  could 


124       EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

hear  the  music  from  the  open  drawing- 
rooms. 

Should  he  speak  to  her?  make  some 
excuse  for  loitering  here?  Coin  some  false 
phrase,  invent  some  wily  subterfuge  that 
should,  for  a  moment,  make  her  bend  her 
head  in  his  direction,  or  mayhap  whisper  a 
word  to  him  across  the  night?  But  when  he 
was  indeed  so  close,  a  step  upon  the  gravel, 
a  sigh,  almost,  would  have  revealed  him  to 
her,  his  courage  sank.  Trembling,  ashamed, 
he  cowered  against  a  tree-trunk,  hidden 
amid  the  bushes,  fearing  to  breathe  lest  her 
unconsciousness  should  be  disturbed. 

Away  in  the  distance  the  Italian  gardens 
slumbered.  The  roses  nodded  sleepily; 
great,  high  gladioli  shot  heavenward,  the 
mignonette  threw  out  its  dank  aroma,  while 
yellow  lilies  exuded  heavy  savor,  in  which 
the  bees  sank  swooning.  The  dancing 
nymphs  gleamed  like  fantastic  specters 
amid  the  shroud  of  vapors,  which  hung  low 
on  the  fountain.  The  marble  basin  glittered 
between  its  dusky  borders,  while  its  waters 
dripped  in  ceaseless  cadence.  Across  this 
peace,  the  shrill  and  tender  cries  of  birds, 
piercing  or  plaintive,  awoke  a  dissonance 
like  some  regret,  some  black  remorse,  clutch 
ing  the  conscience  in  an  hour  of  pleasure. 

The   phlox   waved   purple  clusters,  white 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        125 

petunias  drank  the  dew,  the  amarantus  slept 
in  its  wet  leaves,  the  nebulosa  looked  like 
smoke-flecks  upon  the  verdant  borders  of  the 
pathway.  The  garden  lay  asleep  with  its 
stiff  hedge-rows,  its  cut  yews,  its  quaint 
dwarf  birches.  The  philosopher  in  Percival 
Oakes's  heart  gave  way,  the  poet  awoke. 
He  glanced  upward — he  saw  her  at  last  in  all 
her  glory,  this  pale  lady  of  his  musings.  She 
was  in  full  evening  dress  of  opaline  satin, 
her  arms  and  bosom  bare;  above  her  brow 
there  rose  a  jeweled  coronet.  He  could 
guess  all  her  beauty  in  that  white  fire  which, 
ever  since  that  day  when  she  had  thanked 
him  for  a  service,  seemed  to  environ  her. 
What  mental  phenomenon  was  it  which  made 
this  unknown  woman  to  this  unknown  youth 
a  thing  to  be  at  once  worshiped,  pitied,  and 
adored? — for  in  his  feeling  for  her  there 
were  tears.  Sterile  as  death,  barren  in  its 
unearthly  purity,  his  ideal  passion  yet  was 
warm  enough  for  him  to  resent  that  she 
should  suffer.  And  .  .  .  she  suffered.  Had 
he  not  guessed  it?  Why  should  she  not? 
Love's  own  avatar!  Why  was  she  left  to 
lonely  reveries  on  nights  like  these?  Why 
was  she  not  missed  and  swiftly  sought  for? 
What  were  her  thoughts,  this  lady  of  the 
gentle  eyes?  He  guessed  that  they  were  sad. 
The  Madonna  in  glory,  robed  with  clouds, 


126       EAT  NOT  THY   HEART 

her  slender  feet  upon  the  crescent  moon, 
immaculate,  serene,  could  not  have  seemed 
more  unapproachable  than  she  did  now. 
Afraid,  he  slunk  away,  hugging  the  bank, 
and  was  soon  lost  in  the  fast-gathering 
gloom.  Clouds  swept  the  firmament,  a  chill 
crept  up  the  valley  from  the  Sound.  Lola 
shivered  and  sighed,  as  if  some  angel  of  sor 
row  had  brushed  her  with  its  pinion. 

"  How  cold  it  grows!  "  she  said. 

She  came  back  into  her  room.  She  took 
up  a  candle,  and  shading  it  with  her  hand 
as  she  crossed  the  windy  hall,  went  in,  an 
instant,  to  look  at  her  sleeping  son. 

"  Darling  angel!  "  she  whispered,  as  she 
bent  beside  him.  She  drank  in  the  sweet 
breath  from  between  his  hot  red  lips.  It 
was  like  nectar  to  her.  "  Darling  angel!  " 

The  sadness  in  her  face  vanished.  It 
gave  way  to  an  ineffable  content. 

They  claimed  her  when  she  appeared  at 
the  drawing-room  door  with  a  round  of 
applause. 

"  Bravo!  "  cried  May  Plunkett,  who  was 
spending  the  night  at  Marston  Terrace, 
"  I  've  won  my  bet!  " 

"What  bet?" 

"  Mrs.  Ayrault  insisted  that  my  last  risqute 
story  had  shocked  you,  and  that  we  would 
not  see  you  again  to-night." 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART         127 

"  Why,  I  did  n't  hear  it,"  said  Mrs.  Mar- 
ston,  smiling  faintly. 

"  I  said  .   .   ." 

"Stop!"  said  the  rest.  "Do  you  wish 
to  drive  Mrs.  Marston  away  again?  It  is 
not  decent  in  her  own  house." 

"  What  geese!  "  said  Mrs.  Marston.  "  If 
you  are  all  still  quarreling,  and  as  noisy  as 
when  I  left  you,  I  will  surely  go  away  again, 
and  to  bed  this  time." 

May  Plunkett  was  leaning  back  in  an  arm 
chair,  her  bright  beauty  in  the  full  bloom  of 
its  twenty  years. 

"  She  puts  us  all  out,"  Mrs.  Ayrault 
said  with  a  laugh  that  ended  in  a  funny 
little  groan. 

Lemuel  Isham,  whose  presence  was  made 
audible  by  a  wheeze  and  roar — his  cough 
resembled  the  protest  of  an  angry  lion — 
was  sketching  her. 

The  old  artist's  steady  eye  and  hand,  with 
only  a  bit  of  charcoal,  in  masterful,  broad 
strokes  had  already  thrown  upon  the  can 
vas  a  silhouette  of  unusual  force  and  char 
acter. 

"  That  won't  do — that  won't  do.  Hold 
on  .  .  ."  he  muttered  to  himself.  "  That 
will  all  have  to  come  out.  Why,  I  'm  spoil 
ing  her!  I  'm  giving  her  a  soul!  " 

"What  did  you  say,   Mr.   Isham?"  said 


128       EAT  NOT  THY   HEART 

Miss  Plunkett,  raising  her  head  from  a 
whispered  colloquy  with  Asch. 

She  was  the  only  girl  he  ever  deigned  to 
notice.  Why  he  did  so  was  enigmatic. 
She  was  an  heiress,  but  Asch  did  not  seem 
in  a  hurry  to  make  matrimonial  investments. 
He  preferred  his  friends  should  do  so. 
There  was  less  risk,  and  Asch  was  essentially 
prudent.  This  was  one  of  the  occasions 
when  he  was  indulging  her.  Duly  grateful, 
she  did  not  wish  to  loose  a  moment  of  his 
attention. 

"I  said,"  growled  Isham,  "that  it  was 
impossible  to  do  you  justice  without  color 
— without  the  flesh." 

"  You  said  nothing  of  the  kind.  Did  he, 
Mr.  Asch?"  she  asked,  coquettishly. 

"  I  should  say  .  .  .  the  flesh  was  very 
important,  don't  you  know,"  said  Asch, 
fastening  his  eyes  upon  May's  throat  with  an 
impertinent  stare. 

The  girl  flushed,  but  the  man's  senses 
remained  as  cool  as  a  mountain  brook. 
Perhaps  it  was  this  unruffled  calm  before 
their  charms  which  piqued  and  pleased 
the  women.  Who  can  tell?  It  certainly  was 
more  convenient.  Nineteenth-century  women 
are  too  much  occupied  for  complication. 

Old  Isham  took  off  his  spectacles  and 
looked  at  them  both.  He  blinked. 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        129 

"You  are  actually  growing  fat!  too  fat!" 
said  Asch.  He  had  a  thin,  membranous 
voice,  highly  pitched. 

"Thanks  for  the  compliment,"  said  May 
Plunkett,  piqued.  "  I  've  just  lost  eight 
pounds.  I  was  weighed  in  the  Turkish 
bath." 

"Where  did  they  go — the  eight  pounds?  " 
asked  Asch.  "That  is  what  I  always  ask 
myself.  What  becomes  of  'em?" 

"What  becomes  of  dead  birds?  "  said  Mr. 
Isham. 

"Eh!  What  the  deuce  have  the  birds 
to  do  with  the  eight  pounds  lost  by  Miss 
Plunkett?  I  can't  see." 

"Whew!  whew!  whew!  "  Mr.  Isham  went 
on  working,  his  nose  within  two  inches  of  the 
easel.  "  No,  I  dare  say  not." 

"That  is  queer,"  said  May.  "I  never 
thought  about  that." 

"  Have  you  ever  thought  about  anything?  " 
asked  Mr.  Isham. 

Fenno  Asch  threw  back  his  head  and 
emitted  a  loud  laugh  utterly  devoid  of  mirth. 

"Why,  Mr.  Isham,  how  horridly  rude  you 
are!" 

"I  'm  not  half  as  rude  as  your  friend,  Mr. 
Asch,"  said  Mr.  Isham.  "  I  don't  think  you 
too  fat.  On  the  whole,  I  rather  regret  those 
eight  pounds.  If  you  say  so,  I  '11  put  them 


i3o        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

in  here.     The  question  is,  to  what  part   of 
your  frame  do  you  wish  them  added?  " 

"Mrs.  Marston,"  cried  May,  "come  and 
take  my  part.  The  gentlemen  are  behaving 
cruelly  to  me.  They  are  making  fun  of  me 
and  saying  nasty  things." 

"O,  I  think  you  quite  capable  of  self- 
defense,  May  dear."  Mrs.  Marston  was  look 
ing  over  some  music  at  the  piano  with  Count 
de  Beaumont,  who  had  been  torturing  a  so 
nata  of  Beethoven's  ever  since  dinner. 

"Ah,  voila,  we  hold  it,"  said  the  Count. 
"Hum,  hum,  hum." 

"'Adieu  Grenade,  ma  ^harmante .'  They 
sang  it  in  the  Champs  Elysees.  All  Paris 
went  crazy." 

"  Hum,  hum,  hum.  Is  that  it?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Marston. 

"  Not  exactly.    Yes,  now.      Hum,  hum. 
We  've  got  it.     Parfait." 

"Well,  here  goes  then."  The  two  mingled 
their  voices  while  Mrs.  Ayrault  drummed 
the  accompaniment. 

"That  is  too  high  for  me.  My  voice  is 
such  a  poor  little  squeaky  thing.  Can't  you 
transpose  it?  " 

"  I  '11  try,"  said  Mrs.  Ayrault.  "  There 
now,  begin  again." 

Turn,  turn. 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        131 

"  'Et  le  doux  son  de  la  mandore 
Fremissait  sous  les  doigts  legers.' ' 

"That  is  just  like  your  fingers,  so  smooth 
and  so  light,"  he  found  time  to  leave  in  her 
ear,  between  the  couplets.  Mrs.  Ayrault 
improvised  a  running  interlude  which  she 
ended  with  a  crash. 

"They  can  be  heavy  enough,"  she  said, 
shrugging  her  shoulders.  "  But  don't  you 
think  we 've  'punished  the  piano,'  as  May 
says,  with  our  improvising  long  enough." 

"  No,  no.  Go  on,  go  on.  It  's  perfectly 
lovely." 

"  'Adieu  Grenade,  ma  charmante,' "  hummed 
May,  joining  in  the  refrain. 

"  It 's  a  dream!     Is  it  not,  Mr.  Isham?  " 

"  I  don't  know  anything  more  invigorating, 
unless  it's  Mr.  Asch's  conversation,"  said 
Mr.  Isham. 

Asch  glared  at  him,  scowling;  but  the 
Bostonian  went  on  drawing,  imperturbable. 
Asch's  mere  voice  acted  upon  his  nerves  as 
does  the  barking  of  a  weak-lunged  dog  when 
one  wooes  sleep.  It  must  be  confessed,  how 
ever,  that  Asch's  bark  was  not  persistent. 
He  had  the  genius  of  pause. 

"  How  much  longer  do  you  suppose  Beau 
mont  intends  making  an  ass  of  himself?" 
said  Asch. 


132        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

"How  an  ass?  He  sings  delightfully," 
said  May,  teasingly,  wishing  she  might  rouse 
jealousy. 

"Why,  with  the  Ayrault  and — generally  " 

"You  cannot  comprehend  such  devotion, 
now  can  you,  Mr.  Asch?  A  man  giving  his 
whole  life — for — 

"Rot!" 

"That 's  just  it!     You  think  all  love  rot!  " 

"Well,  isn't  it  now?  Did  you  ever  see 
any  that  was  n't?  " 

"  I  '11  wager  she  never  did."  Had  Mr. 
Isham  sneezed  or  spoken?  "  Whew!  whew!  " 

"Were  you  ever  jealous,  Mr.  Asch?  I 
don't  mean  a  little,  but  murderously." 

Asch  opened  his  handsome  eyes  in  a  won 
der  which  was  at  least  sincere,  but  he  could 
find  no  word. 

"  You  seem  to  think  all  the — er — emo 
tions  rot,"  said  May.  "  Did  you  ever  expe 
rience  that  one?  "  And  she  giggled.  But 
Fenno  Asch's  genuine  astonishment  at  her 
surmise  still  robbed  him  of  speech. 

"I  do  so  love  a  jealous  man!  " 

"Women  always  do  love  donkeys!"  said 
Fenno. 

"You  are  right  there,"  said  Mr.  Isham, 
with  an  unmistakable  accentuation.  "  They 
dew"  He  rang  out  the  last  word  in 
the  best  Nantucket  twang  with  which  he 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        133 

sometimes   amused  the  ladies   after  break 
fast. 

"  So  you  think  a  man  's  a  donkey  for  being 
jealous?  I  don't.  I  respect  him  for  it.  I 
even  love  him,  for  in  that  way  one  can  tor 
ment  him  so  nicely." 

"  Thanks!     I  'd  rather  be  comfortable." 
"Ah!     You  do  think  jealousy  uncomfort 
able?" 

"  Can't  say.     Never  tried  it," 
"Then  you  have  never  loved!  " 
"Shouldn't    be    surprised,"     Mr.    Isham 
mumbled  as  he  gave  a  sharp  pat  to  May's 
charcoal  eyebrow.     He  rose,  and  made  from 
a  distance  an  exhaustive  examination  of  the 
portrait. 

"All  wrong;  all  wrong.  It 's  got  to 
come  out!  There  's  too  much  sense  in  it. 
Might  be  a  Santa  Scholastica.  Why,  there  's 
actually  some  expression  in  those  eyes. 
They  're  not  foolish  enough — irresponsible. 
It 's  all  got  to  be  done  over.  I  've  spoiled 
her.  Dear  me!  dear  me!  The  limitations 
of  art  are  incredible." 

"And  you,  Mr.  Isham,  have  you  ever 
loved?" 

"Ah!  my  dear  Miss  Plunkett,  I  was  born 
too  soon.  In  my  day,  to  be  in  love  was  a 
great  expense;  and  you  see  I  never  could 
afford  myself  the  luxury." 


134        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

"Why — I  don't  understand!" 

"  In  those  simple,  frugal  times,  to  love 
meant  marriage,"  and  as  May  Plunkett 
moved  away  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Ayrault,  who 
was  calling  her,  the  old  man  went  on  as  if 
addressing  the  ambient  air.  "  Girls  did  not 
have  dots  in  those  days,  and  men  had  to  earn 
their  own  living.  Their  greatest  happiness 
was  to  slave  for  the  worshiped  lady,  to  be 
stow  everything  upon  her,  for  which,  in 
return,  they  felt  themselves  blessed  if  she 
gave  into  their  keeping  her  little  hand. 
To-day  fortunes  are  a  heritage;  love  an  in 
vestment.  I  am  old.  I  leave  the  field  to 
the  more  enterprising  generation."  And  he 
waved  his  hand  toward  Asch  with  a  contemp 
tuous  inflection  on  the  word  "enterprising." 

"  Do  you  know,  Mr.  Isham,"  said  May, 
who  had  caught  the  last  word,  "  I  think  the 
old  fellows  are  more  enterprising  than  the 
young  ones.  They  are  less  ...  er  ... 
prudent."  She  looked  at  Asch  as  she  spoke. 
"  But  I  missed  all  that  you  have  been  say 
ing.  Tell  me  over  again." 

"  I  was  saying  the  boys  had  to  rough  it  in 
my  day,  dear  young  lady;  and  that  prudence 
was  not  a  part  of  our  valor." 

"  I  hate  prudent  men,"  said  Miss  Plunkett. 
"  Cowards  are  prudent.  But  what  did  you 
say  to  Mr.  Asch?"  she  persisted. 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        135 

"  I  must  not  repeat  myself,"  said  Mr. 
Isham,  smiling  and  shaking  his  head,  "  al 
though  that  is  one  of  the  prerogatives  of 
age.  One  would  not  like  to  become  a  bore." 
He  sighed. 

"  Fancy  your  being  a  bore,  Mr.  Isham, 
with  all  your  wonderful  talent!  " 

"What  has  my  talent  to  do  with  it?" 
asked  Mr.  Isham,  gruffly.  "When  did  so 
ciety  care  for  performance?  All  it  wants  is 
personality.  It  asks  us  to  be  ornamental, 
amusing,  or  amused;  and  it  is  quite  right, 
too.  The  bores  are  those  who  expect  its 
praise  for  the  things  it  cares  nothing  at  all 
about.  For  the  things  of  which  we  are  most 
proud,  our  friends  rarely  give  us  credit  or 
applause.  Now,  I  do  not  want  the  applause 
of  society.  How  could  I  growl  and  bark  at 
it  if  I  owed  it  gratitude?  Society  is  a  tonic. 
It  kills  our  vanity.  It  shows  us  its  folly. 
Nobody  cares  for  our  best  actions  or  our  best 
gifts.  When  I  was  a  very  little  boy  I  saved 
the  life  of  a  friend's  pet  dog,  but  I  got  my 
jacket  and  my  hands  dirty,  and  I  remember 
that  my  father  whipped  me  severely.  He 
represented  society  which  dislikes  the  un 
sightly." 

Perhaps  Mr.  Isham  knew  that  it  was  his 
very  bark  and  growl  which  made  him  ac 
ceptable,  and  he  could  laugh  in  his  sleeve  at 


136        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

the  human  masquers  who  found  his  own  dis 
guise  piquant. 

In  the  other  room  a  quadrille  had  been 
formed.  Of  course  nobody  knew  how  to 
dance  it.  Its  formality  had  degenerated  into 
a  general  scamper  and  frolic.  A  couple  were 
playing  backgammon  in  the  library  as  a  cover 
to  sentiment.  Others  had  strolled  out  upon 
the  terrace.  From  one  to  another  of  these 
scattered  groups  Archibald  Marston  wan 
dered — the  amiable  entertainer,  the  genial 
host.  Never,  perhaps,  had  the  realization  of 
his  ambitions  been  more  absolute  than  to 
night.  He  had  at  his  house  to-day  the  very 
cream  of  a  coterie  famed  for  exclusiveness. 
Fashion  was  represented  by  youth,  beauty, 
and  wealth,  but  in  his  character  of  man  of 
the  world  this  was  not  enough.  Isham  was 
there  to  do  the  heavy  artistic;  de  Beaumont, 
diplomacy;  there  was  even  a  stray  congress 
man  out  on  the  veranda,  admitted  because 
politics  was  to  him  a  fad,  not  a  career,  and  he 
was  chatting  with  a  young  married  lady  who 
had  once  been  known  to  publish  a  sonnet  in 
Harper's  Magazine.  Even  literature  was  not 
neglected.  It  is  doubtful  if  any  of  the 
house-party  had  read  the  sonnet.  They 
spoke  of  it  vaguely,  in  whispers.  It  is  also 
quite  certain  that  had  they  read  it  they  would 
have  criticised  it  with  unusual  severity,  see- 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        137 

ing  the  author  was  their  intimate  companion. 
There  are  no  more  severe  critics  of  an  art 
than  those  who  know  not  its  alphabet.  At 
the  time  of  its  publication  there  had  been  a 
moment  of  terror,  followed  by  a  reaction. 
They  generously  decided  not  to  drop  her. 
For  this  there  were  four  reasons.  She  was 
pretty;  she  dressed  extremely  well;  she  was 
good-natured;  and  she  gave  amusing  little 
dinners  at  which  "  frumps  "  were  never  met. 
Would  she  have  "  frumps  "  after  the  sonnet? 
That  was  the  question  which  agitated  the 
community  for  six  months.  One  never  can 
be  sure.  Sonnets  are  proverbially  upsetting. 
The  first  year  settled  the  question.  She  did 
not  change  her  circle.  She  was  saved! 

Yes,  Marston  was  happy — perfectly  so! 
There  was  the  house.  It  was  the  apple  of 
his  eye.  He  was  careful  not  to  appear  too 
well  pleased  with  its  stately  proportions,  its 
luxurious  furnishings,  but  he  could  with  dif 
ficulty  conceal  his  satisfaction  under  a  well- 
bred  indifference.  Above  all  he  was  pleased 
with  his  wife.  She  certainly  was  exquisite. 
How  superior  to  all  these  fussy,  restless 
women  whose  languid  manner  was  mere 
affectation,  disguising  petty  aims  and  low 
designs.  Her  indifference  was  not  feigned. 
It  was  real.  Sometimes,  indeed,  it  had  vexed 
him — vexed  him  that  she  was  not  more 


138        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

modern,  that  her  conservative  ancestry  had 
left  with  her  traditions  which  made  her  re 
semble  a  mediaeval  lady  of  the  sixteenth 
century  wandering  bewildered  through  the 
noise  of  this.  But  to-night,  as  he  looked  at 
her,  he  appreciated  that  this  was  power.  He 
realized  in  her  that  something  which  raised 
her  above  them  all — nay,  above  him — and 
he  felt  generously  inclined  to  forgive  her! 
He  went  now  and  touched  her  arm,  and  said 
an  affectionate  word  to  her,  so  overbubbling 
with  his  pride  that  he  did  not  care  if  it  was 
"bad  form."  She  instantly  responded  with 
her  soft  lips  pouting  out  at  him;  behind  the 
raised  top  of  the  grand  piano  her  palm  sought 
his,  and  she  gave  his  hand  a  gentle  little 
squeeze,  a  glow  of  tenderness  lighting  up 
her  sweet  face.  He  was  not  often  so  demon 
strative. 

The  party  was  breaking  up.  It  was  nearly 
one  o'clock.  The  moon  hung  low  on  the 
horizon;  the  clouds  had  drifted  away.  The 
night  was  superb. 

"  It  is  quite  too  beautiful  to  go  to  bed  !  " 
said  the  author  of  the  sonnet,  coming  in 
nevertheless,  with  her  congressman. 

"  I  really  must  disappear,"  said  Mrs. 
Marston.  "  I  have  to  get  up  early  in  the 
morning,  and  drive  very,  very  far.  I  shall 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        139 

leave  you  to  your  own  devices,  and  to 
Archie's." 

"  Where  are  you  going?  "  they  all  asked. 

"O,  no  matter!  You  could  never  guess." 
And  she  would  not  tell  them.  She  was,  in 
fact,  going  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  county  poor- 
house,  which  she  never  neglected,  however 
onerous  might  be  her  other  duties. 


CHAPTER   XI 

The  poor  house — a  square,  brown  build 
ing,  surmounted  by  a  cupola — stood  at  an 
angle  of  two  roads  in  a  pleasant  field.  It 
was  surrounded  by  trees.  Although  over  its 
low  doorway  one  might  well  have  written  up 
the  "  Lasciate  ogni  speranza  voi  che  en- 
trate "  of  the  great  Tuscan's  hell,  yet  its 
aspect  was  not  particularly  forbidding.  It 
was  only  when  one  penetrated  among  its 
tenants  that  the  sense  of  its  gloom  struck  a 
chill  to  the  heart.  Although  Mrs.  Marston 
had  the  habit  of  visiting  "  Smith's  Institu 
tion,"  as  this  refuge  was  called  by  the  cour 
tesy  of  amiable  trustees,  she  never  did  so 
without  the  inward  shudder  with  which  we 
face  an  unwelcome  task.  When  the  effort 
was  over,  she  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief  hardly 
tempered  by  that  sense  of  exhilaration 
which  the  priests  tell  us  duty  done  leaves 
with  the  virtuous.  What  satisfaction  indeed 
could  come  from  the  contemplation  of  such 
hopelessness? 

To-day  she  found  the  inmates  already  at 
140 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        141 

their  midday  meal.  In  the  summer  they  had 
a  light  supper;  in  winter  the  meals  were  re 
duced  to  two,  and  they  went  supperless  to 
bed,  the  fact  that  the  evenings  were  shorter 
being  given  as  excuse  for  this  curtailment. 

Lola  was  too  sincere  to  indulge  in  that 
foolish  exclamatory  admiration  with  which 
the  dwellers  in  luxurious  homes  view  hospi 
tals,  asylums,  and  retreats  dedicated  by 
charity  to  the  unfortunate.  Nevertheless,  so 
strong  is  the  force  of  custom,  that  even  she 
was  not  quite  free  from  that  forced  cheer 
fulness,  that  strained  approval  with  which 
the  children  of  the  world  accost  the  chil 
dren —  shall  we  say  —  of  the  earth?  The 
painful  contrast  of  her  elegant  garments 
with  the  squalor  of  their  own  humbled  her 
into  that  apologetic  attitude  with  which  the 
man  who  occupies  a  seat  in  a  drawing-room 
car  nods  to  his  friend  who  is  hurrying  to  find 
one  in  the  rear.  Yet  it  would  never  have 
occurred  to  Lola  Marston  to  change  her 
manner  of  dress  to  suit  this  new  environ 
ment.  In  this  she  was  wise.  It  is  best 
always  to  be  one's  self.  There  is  nothing  to 
gain — and  least  of  all  with  the  uneducated, 
whose  force  of  vision  we  should  not  under 
value — by  shams  or  by  hypocrisy.  She 
knew  they  liked  to  see  her  as  she  was,  and, 
beyond  this,  being  in  spite  of  her  softness  a 


142       EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

person  of  individuality,  she  did  not  purpose 
to  suit  herself  to  others.  She  demanded 
that  they  should  suit  themselves  to  her. 

The  matron  met  her  in  the  upper  hall. 
She  was  a  disheveled  woman  with  a  ruddy, 
coarse  complexion  and  a  somewhat  abrupt 
manner.  She  was  not  unclean,  or  entirely 
ill-favored,  however,  and  under  her  turbu 
lent  and  vigilant  defiance  there  lurked,  Mrs. 
Marston  knew,  a  sort  of  shamefaced  sympa 
thy  for  the  beings  whose  welfare  she  was 
delegated  to  watch  over.  She  showed  Mrs. 
Marston  into  her  room.  Two  decidedly 
dirty  little  children  frolicked  on  the  floor. 
One,  a  charming  little  girl  in  a  soiled  scarlet 
frock,  ran  up  smiling,  and  touched  Mrs. 
Marston's  rich  coat  with  wonder  and  delight. 
The  other,  a  robust  boy  of  three,  scrambled 
up  into  a  rocking-chair,  having  possessed 
himself  of  a  greasy  picture-book.  In  his 
mouth  he  held  a  long  rusty  iron  nail;  now 
and  then  he  took  it  between  his  thumb  and 
index,  and  puffed  out  his  pink  cheeks. 

"Well,  if  he  ain't  smoking,"  said  his 
mother,  with  sudden  laughter.  "  He  sees 
the  old  men  a-doin'  of  it,  and  he  's  such  a 
monkey  he  just  catches  up  all  he  sees." 

Mrs.  Marston  smiled. 

"  They  are  dear  children,"  she  said. 
"What  are  their  names?" 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        143 

"  Keziah  and  Johnny,  ma'am.  After  me 
and  my  husband." 

"Ain't  papar  comin'  in  to  see  the  lady?" 
asked  Keziah,  stroking  gently  Mrs.  Mar- 
ston's  lace  parasol. 

"  O,  I  guess  he  '11  be  along,"  said  the 
woman,  whose  name  was  Mrs.  Monk. 

"  I  have  never  seen  your  husband,"  said 
Mrs.  Marston,  with  the  same  set  smile  which 
gave  her  jaw  a  feeling  of  having  been  dislo 
cated  and  reset. 

"He  ain't  much  to  look  at,  but  he's 
good;  he  's  a  year  younger  'n  me,"  said  Mrs. 
Monk. 

"  O,  that  makes  no  difference.  You  're 
young  too,"  said  Mrs.  Marston. 

"Well,  I  ain't  so  young  as  I  was.  I  'm 
going  on  thirty." 

"  And  how  are  they  all?  " 

"Much  the  same.  Old  Madam  Kate's 
gone.  We  had  her  funeral  last  week.  Mr. 
Walsh,  he  came  over  to  read  the  service." 

"  And  Mrs.  Davis,  is  she  still  here?  She 
seemed  such  a  hearty  creature.  I  should 
think  she  might  get  work." 

"  Well,  and  so  she  could."  Mrs.  Monk 
leaned  back  in  her  rocker,  displaying  her 
thick  feet,  swinging  far  apart  gracelessly,  in 
their  woolen  socks  and  stout  shoes.  As  she 
rocked  she  caressed  the  end  of  her  nose, 


144        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

upon  which  the  heat  had  left  its  flush,  with 
her  knitting-needle.  Her  garments  exuded 
that  curious  odor  which  do  those  of  persons 
whose  effects  are  washed  in  the  same  place 
where  their  cooking  is  done,  and  as  Mrs. 
Marston  looked  at  her  she  found  herself 
wondering  how  any  man  could  love  this 
woman,  or  even  want  her — this  woman  in 
whom  all  element  of  charm  seemed  so  en 
tirely  absent. 

"  About  Mrs.  Davis — I  have  to  laugh!" 
Mrs.  Monk  rocked  vigorously,  and  indulged 
in  a  peal  of  hilarity.  "  She  'd  got  a  splendid 
offer,  only  six  weeks  back.  A  widower — 
two  sons — wanted  her  to  look  after  them  a 
bit — do  the  cleanin'  and  mendin'.  Five  dol 
lars  a  month — all  found!  Well" — Mrs. 
Monk  tipped  her  chair  and  laughed  again — 
"well,  she  wouldn't  quit  here.  She's  in 
love! — and  it  ain't  with  the  house  neither." 

"  Mrs.  Davis?     That  old  woman?" 

"You  may  say  it." 

"  You  're  joking,  Mrs.  Monk?  " 

"No,  I  ain't.     Ask  Maggie." 

Maggie  was  the  wit  of  the  establishment; 
an  Irishwoman,  irrepressible,  with  a  wag 
ging  tongue  and  a  shrill  jollity  which  rever 
berated  ever  and  anon  through  the  silent 
halls. 

"In  love!" 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        145 

"I  guess  that's  the  color  of  it.  She's 
just  crazy  after  a  man  here.  Amos  P.  they 
call  him.  His  name  's  Amos  P.  Hubbs." 

"Mr.  Hubbs!" 

"Well,  if  it  ain't  queer,  I  don't  know." 

"Why?     What?" 

"  Says  she  knowed  him  when  she  was 
younger,  over  in  Brooklyn.  That  may  be. 
I  must  say  them  two  is  n't  like  the  rest. 
They  're  educated  and  quiet-spoken — and, 
well,  I  suspect  they  've  been  better  off.  She 
washes  for  him,  mends  his  pants  and  duds 
now  and  then,  does  little  chores  for  him. 
He  ain't  no  good.  He  's  got  the  rheumatiz. 
But  he  's  a  great  hand  to  talk.  Well,  he 
hangs  around  her,  and  they  're  dreadful  set 
on  each  other." 

"That  old  woman!"  Mrs.  Marston  could 
only  ejaculate  again. 

"Yes.  He  ain't  so  old.  He  ain't  more 'n 
fifty-five,  and  she  's  goin'  on  sixty  if  she  's 
an  hour;  but  she  's  a  fine-lookin'  woman  for 
all  that,  is  Mrs.  Davis,  and  that  widower 
would  have  hired  her.  Well,  would  you 
believe  it,  she  weighed  it  in  her  mind  for 
two  days  and  nights.  She  could  n't  sleep  or 
eat — she  was  that  flustered.  It  meant  leav 
ing  the  poorhouse,  and  she  's  a  well-born 
woman,  Mrs.  Davis,  and  a  good  home,  and 
wages,  too,  agin'  a  rainy  day;  but  when  the 


146        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

time  come  she  could  n't  do  it.  You  see  she 
could  n't  leave  Amos.  I  guess  she  thought 
he'd  kinder  miss  her." 

Mrs.  Monk  laughed  once  more,  but  this 
time  there  was  less  spontaneity  in  the  merri 
ment;  it  wavered  a  moment  and  then  ceased, 
sobering  into  sudden  silence.  Mrs.  Marston, 
too,  had  grown  grave. 

"  Is  she  quite  alone  in  the  world — quite 
friendless?" 

"  She  ain't  got  no  relatives  as  I  know  of. 
They  're  all  dead,  or  maybe  ungrateful. 
She  's  been  a  good  woman  always,  so  I 
heard  some  folks  who  knowed  of  her  tell. 
Nobody  ever  asks  for  her.  She  's  been  here 
nigh  on  seven  year.  Her  husband  was  a 
bad  egg,  I  guess,  but  he  ain't  livin'." 

"Then  I  suppose  this  ...  er  ...  affec 
tion  ...  is  the  only  one  she  has  in  the 
world." 

"Well,  I  guess  it's  all  there's  left  to 
her." 

The  last  words  were  uttered  in  a  tone  so 
gentle  that  it  was  almost  a  sigh.  Mrs.  Mar 
ston  looked  up  surprised.  Her  deep  eyes 
met  the  opaque  ones  of  the  matron.  There 
was  a  pause. 

"  The  quaintest  thing  is  she  's  changed  re 
ligions.  She  was  Congregationalist — Mrs. 
Davis — blue  as  blue!  Went  to  meetin' 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        147 

reg'lar.  Yes,  a  reg'lar  blue  light.  Well, 
will  you  believe  it,  when  the  priest  come 
here  to  see  Amos,  when  he  thought  he  'd  die 
with  pain  across  his  chest,  three  weeks  back, 
she  ups  and  gets  him  to  baptize  her  a  Cath 
olic.  Now,  ain't  that  droll?  I  guess  they  'd 
like  to  be  married,  but  we  could  n't  have  it 
here." 

"No!" 

"  I  don't  say  as  if  they  went  out  and  did 
it  as  the  trustees  could  raise  objections. 
There  ain't  no  law  agin'  marriage.  But  you 
understand  .  .  ." 

"Yes." 

"Well,  she's  bound  to  be  the  same  as 
him.  I  guess  she  was  afeard  if  they  wan't 
the  same  religions  they  'd  get  separated 
somehow  in  another  world.  They  ain't  got 
much  to  look  for  here,  I  guess." 

Mrs.  Monk's  voice  was  a  little  husky. 

"  So  this  place  has  its  idyl,"  murmured 
Lola. 

"Eh?" 

"  Its  love  affair." 

"  Seems  so." 

They  were  silent. 

"  How  sad!"  said  Mrs.  Marston,  after  a 
while. 

"Well  it  is,  now  you  come  to  look  at  it." 
Mrs.  Monk  stopped,  and  scooped  up  her  son 


148        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

who  had  crawled  to  her  side.  She  buried 
her  face  in  his  tangled  curls  with  a  maternal 
gurgle  of  satisfaction. 

"  She  is  n't  so  unattractive  after  all," 
thought  Mrs.  Marston,  with  contrition. 

A  sound  of  moving  chairs  warned  them 
that  the  diners  had  finished  their  repast.  In 
a  few  moments  Mrs.  Marston  entered  the 
women's  department.  There  they  were  all, 
Maggie  and  Phoebe  and  Mrs.  Davis,  with 
her  added  aureole  of  romance.  Her  hand 
some  motherly  face  smiled  under  its  black 
fluted  cap.  Maggie  was  obstreperous  as 
usual,  full  of  gossip  and  reminiscence,  teas 
ing  the  others,  and  shaking  her  old  yellow 
face  at  them. 

"  Have  done,  Maggie  Sullivan!  You  're 
crazy.  Here  comes  a  lady." 

There  was  Phcebe,  the  ruddy  giantess, 
who  had  lived  all  her  life  in  the  poorhouse, 
and  had  borne  a  child  there,  so  long  ago 
indeed  that,  though  the  girl  remained,  the 
scandal  which  had  heralded  her  birth  was 
half  forgotten. 

The  girl,  Tot,  stood  now  with  arms  akimbo, 
idle,  dawdling,  simpering,  upon  the  neigh 
boring  door-sill.  Tot  was  not  "all  there," 
as  the  Scotch  have  it. 

Then  there  was  Diana.  Dianawasanegress. 
She  was  as  black  as  ink.  O,  Artemis, 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        149 

starry-eyed,  swift  of  foot,  would  not  thy 
lip  have  curled  in  scorn  and  anger  had  this 
namesake  of  thine  dared  pollute  thy  great 
Ephesian  temple,  seeking  blessing? 

About  Diana  there  hung  a  horrible  and 
ghastly  interest.  Even  Mrs.  Marston  found 
it  difficult  when  the  wretched  creature  was 
in  the  room  to  detach  her  eyes  from  a  fas 
cinated  scrutiny  of  her  shapeless,  ghoulish 
ugliness.  She  was  short-limbed  and  heavily 
built  ;  from  her  swarthy  throat  her  head 
rose,  unnaturally  small.  It  was  perfectly 
round,  surmounted  by  a  crown  of  bristling 
wool ;  her  forehead  was  flat  and  lowering ; 
her  nose  wide;  her  jaws  prognathous,  with 
brutal  lupine  lips,  which  held  between  them 
always  the  stump  of  a  clay  pipe.  The  rat- 
like  roving  of  her  beady  eyes  suggested  a 
mind  preyed  upon  by  impulses  of  malignity 
and  apprehension. 

"  When  she  ain't  smoking  she  gets 
fidgety, "the  matron  here  remarked.  "Gets 
sort  of  wild  and  nervous,  and  can't  do  her 
dishes." 

At  twenty  Diana  had  been  nurse  to  the 
child  of  a  farmer's  wife.  One  day  furtively 
she  carried  the  child  into  the  neighboring 
woods,  and  there  crushed  in  its  head  between 
two  stones.  She  had  no  dislike  to  the  baby 
—  no  grudge  against  its  parents.  What 


150        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

savage  and  sensual  instinct  found  vent  in 
this  hideous  deed  ?  What  inherent  depravity 
was  known  only  to  herself.  The  jury  had 
disagreed;  six  were  for  hanging  her,  while 
six  insisted  she  was  irresponsible.  The  word 
which  the  slayer  of  a  President  has  left  to 
us,  that  crisp  and  comprehensive  appellative 
"crank,"  had  not  been  added  yet  to  our 
American  vocabulary.  That  word  which 
designates  those  dangerous  beings  who  vacil 
late  forever  upon  the  edge  of  madness  was 
still  to  be  invented  by  one  of  its  most  viru 
lent  exponents.  Diana  was  refused  at  the 
Lunatic  Asylum,  declared  unfit  for  the 
Idiot's  Home,  so  twenty  years  before,  she 
had  been  brought  here.  There  had  been 
talk  of  a  new  trial,  but  time,  perhaps,  had 
assuaged  the  grief  of  the  bereaved  mother; 
at  any  rate,  here  ever  since  she  had  re 
mained,  forgotten.  If  the  furies  which  had 
shaken  her  youth  still  slumbered,  who  could 
say?  She  passed  her  days  in  washing  dishes; 
if  now  and  then  she  rattled  them  in  the  sink, 
nicking  their  corners  with  vengeful  emphasis, 
it  was  perhaps  the  expiring  protest  of  a 
burned-out  volcano.  She  always  curtesied 
to  Mrs.  Marston,  calling  her  by  name,  but 
with  her  Lola  could  never  bring  herself  to 
speak,  acquitting  herself  by  a  nod  of  greet 
ing. 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        151 

To-day  her  attention  several  times  wan 
dered  to  where  a  new  physiognomy  detached 
itself  from  among  the  well-known  ones  of 
the  women.  Something  there  was,  however, 
of  reserve  and  modesty  in  the  bear-ing 
of  the  new  inmate,  so  that  she  hesitated  to 
intrude  even  a  smile  in  her  direction.  Her 
tact  was  rewarded.  The  young  woman, 
who  was  neatly  dressed  and  had  a  certain 
refinement  about  her  person,  moved  forward 
and  addressed  her. 

"  I 'm  a  newcomer,  ma'am,"  she  said.  "I 
would  never  have  been  here  only  for  my 
child." 

"Ah!  "said  Mrs.  Marston,  her  eyes  all 
sympathy. 

"Yes,  I  had  a  good  place  down  by  Ros- 
lyn.  They  're  rich  folks.  I  scrubbed  and 
cooked  for  the  men  in  the  lower  farm.  The 
lady  was  kind  to  me.  She  let  me  have 
Rosy.  Rosy 's  my  child.  But  one  day  her 
arm  began  to  swell  up,  and  she  got  the 
blood-poisoning,  and  I  had  to  leave  my 
place  to  nurse  her.  She  came  near  dying. 
The  doctor  says  I  saved  her  with  my  care. 
But  they  got  a  Polish  woman,  and  she  did 
not  have  any  baby,  and  so  ...  I  found  it 
convenient  ...  to  come  in  here.  ...  I 
had  to  come." 

"  Why  would  n't  the  widower's  place   do 


152        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

for  her? "  asked  Mrs.  Marston,  turning  to 
Mrs.  Davis  with  an  inspiration  of  helpful 
ness. 

"  O,  they're  decent  folks,"  said  Maggie. 
"  They'd  take  no  young  'uns." 

The  young  woman  flushed,  and  made  a 
deprecating  gesture.  Mrs.  Marston  turned 
the  subject  which  seemed  to  involve  some 
hidden  sting,  and  continued  to  chat  with  the 
others.  Rosy's  mother  relapsed  into  silence. 
By  and  by  she  left  the  room.  In  a  moment 
she  reappeared  with  the  child  in  her  arms 
—  a  lovely  child  with  dark  curls,  great  lus 
trous  eyes,  and  cherry  lips.  The  little  one 
had  on  a  clean  cotton  frock. 

"This  is  my   Rosy,"  she  said. 

"Surely,  surely,"  said  Mrs.  Marston,  kindly, 
"she  doesn't  look  like  an  invalid.  She's  a 
beauty." 

The  mother's  face  lighted  with  pleasure. 

"  Does  she  now?  "  she  said.  "  She's  nearly 
well." 

"Are  you  English?  "  asked  Mrs.  Marston. 

"Yes,  ma'am.     How  did  you  guess?" 

"  By  your  speech,"  said  Mrs.  Marston,  "as 
they  said  to  Peter." 

"  Well,  1  won't  deny  my  nation,  as  he  did," 
she  answered,  a  trifle  proudly. 

"She  is  very  intelligent,"  thought  Mrs. 
Marston.  "  Oh,  how  dreadful!  " 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        153 

"You  see,"  said  the  young  mother,  while 
a  bright  pink  color  rose  in  her  cheeks,  "  she's 
the  best  baby  when  she  is  n't  ill.  I  used  to 
tie  her  with  a  long  rope  to  a  tree  just  out 
side  the  window  where  I  worked  so  I  could 
see  her,  and  do  you  believe  she  stayed  there 
all  day  long  with  never  a  whimper.  Just 
laughing  and  crowing  and  playing  by  her 
self.  I  used  to  carry  her  milk  out  to  her. 
Those  people  were  good.  I'll  never  get 
such  another  chance  again.  People  won't 
have  children." 

"She's  a  lovely  child,"  repeated  Mrs. 
Marston,  with  that  sense  of  despair  such 
cases  awaken  in  us. 

She  noticed  that  her  words  found  no  echo 
with  the  other  women.  She  rose  and  made 
her  adieux,  leaving  a  golden  coin  in  little 
Rosy's  hand. 

Still,  on  the  whole,  with  all  their  lack  of 
charity,  with  their  frivolity  and  narrowness, 
the  women  imparted  something  to  their  sur 
roundings  which  the  men  could  not.  Some 
where  within  those  withered  breasts  there 
were  movements  of  motherhood,  love-tones, 
an  occasional  spark  of  that  lightheartedness 
which  God  has  given  to  feminine  things,  — 
that  spirit  of  natural  gayety  which  bubbles 
up  now  and  again  in  the  veins  of  the  most 
sorrowful  of  women,  a  flotsam  of  their  girl- 


154        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

hood.  There  were  plants  in  the  window 
where  they  sat;  there  was  even  a  canary- 
bird  in  awooden  cage,  singing  in  the  sunlight, 
and  they  themselves  were  occupied.  Many 
of  them  were  sewing,  and  all  were  chatting. 
If  it  was  not  home-like,  it  was  at  least  not 
grave-like. 

But  grave-like  was  the  melancholy  of  the 
men's  ward.  Two  or  three  tramps  belong 
ing  to  that  genial  genus  which  perambulates 
country  roads,  and  whose  stomachs  are  al 
ways  ready  to  absorb  cold  griddle-cakes, 
discarded  biscuits  and  warmed-over  coffee, 
sat  near  the  door.  One  with  crutches,  one 
in  a  high,  brimless  hat,  one  in  a  tattered  uni 
form,  were  exchanging  a  monosyllabic  col 
loquy  in  a  corner  by  the  empty  stove — which 
served  as  a  spittoon.  These  were  the  men 
of  the  world.  They  had  something  to  relate. 
But  the  others,  the  others!  Each  alone  on 
his  chair,  his  back  to  the  wall,  unoccupied, 
humiliated,  undone.  With  the  fine  percep 
tions  of  her  delicate  nature,  Mrs.  Marston 
noticed  that  this  humiliation — this  sense,  as  it 
were,  of  mortification,  defeat,  failure — which 
left  no  mark  upon  the  women,  had  stamped 
itself  indelibly  here.  They  avoided  her  eye, 
they  had  nothing  to  say.  All  was  over! 
She  had  brought  some  newspapers,  and  she 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        155 

now  produced  them  and  tried  to  rouse  their 
interest  in  the  last  election. 

"  Well,  ma'am,  I  was  once  a  Republican," 
said  an  old  man,  rising  and  offering  her  his 
seat.  "And  I'm  an  old  soldier,  and  I  got 
my  pension,  but  I'm  so  sick  I  came  in  here 
for  the  doctor.  I'm  eighty-three  and  full  of 
pains.  I  guess  my  pension'll  not  last  'em 
much  longer." 

"  We  gave  'em  a  good  lickin'  this  time  in 
the  State,"  chuckled  one  of  the  tramps, 
addressing  no  one  in  particular,  and  rubbing 
his  knees.  He  was  "Crazy  Jim,"  who  scoured 
the  country  roads  early  and  late.  A  hump 
backed  man,  with  an  embarrassed  manner 
and  a  pinched,  starved  face,  appeared  at  the 
doorway.  "  That's  Mr.  Fussi.  He's  a  mu 
sician,"  said  Mr.  Hubbs,  addressing  Lola. 

Fussi,  too,  was  a  new  arrival. 

"Are  you  an  Italian?  "  asked  Lola.  His 
pathetic  figure  filled  her  with  pity. 

"  My  father  was,"  he  replied,  shortly.  He 
had  one  of  those  faces  which  haunt  the 
memory. 

"  And  you  are  a  musician?  " 

"  Whose  music  nobody  wants,"  he  said, 
with  a  smile  that  Mrs.  Marston  never  for 
got. 

"  Good-day."     Flourishing  one  arm  as  if 


156        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

he  were  uncovering  before  her,  the  musician 
turned  away  and  went  quickly  up  the  narrow 
stairway,  vanishing  from  her  sight. 

"  He's  a  perfect  gentleman,  Mr.  Fussi  is," 
said  Mr.  Hubbs.  "  But  I  guess,  like  the 
rest  of  us  here,  he's  met  with  misfortune." 

"  Well,  I  '11  bring  you  fruit  and  oysters 
the  next  time  I  come,  and  I  hope  you  will 
all  be  well.  Good-by,  Mr.  Hubbs." 

"Good-by,   Mrs.  Marston." 

"  Good-by." 

Once  more  in  her  carriage  she  could  think 
again.  It  was  a  ten-mile  drive  through 
woody  lanes  and  meadow  lands.  The 
sunshine  lay  upon  the  fields.  Summer 
breezes  ran  with  crackling  sounds  through 
the  dry  grass.  The  mill  at  the  old  pond 
turned  lazily  its  crumbling  wheel.  The 
thirsty  cattle  drew  close  to  the  water  under 
the  shade  of  trees  for  shelter  from  the  heat, 
switching  their  tails  to  brush  from  their  dry 
flanks  the  flies  that  bled  them.  Their  low 
ing  and  the  buzz  of  insect  wings  were  the 
sole  sounds  which  shook  this  scene  of  in 
finite  repose.  Yes,  she  could  think,  and 
there  was  time.  Think!  What  did  it  all 
mean?  What  were  these  wrecks  of  the 
world?  Why  were  they  ever  born  to  linger 
thus?  And  were  they  really  as  miserable  as 
they  appeared  to  her?  Self-love  protected 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        157 

them,  perhaps.  We  are  never,  in  our  own 
estimation,  quite  as  forlorn  as  others  see  us. 
But  to  Lola  all  was  pain,  and  to  her  use 
less  questionings  the  only  answer  was,  as  she 
drove  homeward  through  the  quiet  noonday, 
her  silent  tears. 


CHAPTER  XII 

IT  is  difficult  to  remain  on  any  height. 
The  bluest  sky  breeds  tempest. 

A  cloud  appeared  athwart  Archibald  Mars- 
ton's  visual  ray  as  he  threw  open  his  shutter, 
and  looked  down  on  his  fair  terraces  early 
one  morning.  This  cloud  was  found  to  be 
somewhat  larger  than  a  man's  hand.  It  was 
also  found  to  be  of  a  vivid  crimson.  Under 
close  inspection  it  proved  to  be  of  mousse- 
line  de  laine  and  to  assume  the  outline  of  a 
woman's  polonaise.  It  obscured,  to  him  at 
least,  the  entire  horizon.  Because  of  it  he 
could  not  eat  an  egg  the  butler  brought  him, 
nor  drink  his  coffee  with  appetite.  After 
this  unsuccessful  meal  he  returned  to  his 
window.  Yes  it  was  still  there,  flagrant, 
indecent,  insolent. 

Upon  his  terrace,  not  thirty  feet  from 
columned  portico,  there  was  a  stone  seat,  a 
favorite  one  with  his  guests,  many  of  whom 
could  see  it  from  their  windows.  Upon  this 
seat,  arrayed  in  this  peremptory,  harsh,  cruel 
color — it  was  of  that  magenta  red  which 
158 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        159 

gives  the  toothache — sat  Mrs.  Bucknell,  and 
by  her  side,  in  black,  not  red,  this  lady's 
husband. 

He  rubbed  his  eyes,  did  Mr.  Marston,  to 
be  sure  he  was  not  dreaming.  But  no,  they 
were  too  real.  There  could  not  be  a  doubt. 
He  told  himself  that  they  would  linger  but 
a  moment,  that  it  was  a  mistake,  some  horrid 
blunder  they  would  speedily  repent  of  and 
be  gone.  But  no!  what  did  he  now  per 
ceive?  She  rose  and  spread  a  shawl  down 
on  the  grass,  on  which  she  squatted.  She 
pulled  some  worsted  from  her  pocket,  she 
began  to  knit,  while  Bucknell,  stretching 
himself  at  full  length  upon  his  stomach  on 
the  seat,  pushed  back  his  hat  between  his 
ears  and  began  to  sleep.  Before  assuming 
this  attitude  he  had  slowly  removed  his 
shoes,  which  lay  on  the  grass  near  to  his 
wife's  knees.  His  large  brown  cotton  socks 
rose  between  Mr.  Marston  and  the  view. 

Ringing  hastily  for  his  valet,  Mr.  Marston 
gave  him  to  understand  that  there  were 
some  strangers  in  front  of  the  house,  that 
they  must  be  at  once  informed  that  it  was 
inhabited,  the  grounds  private,  and  that  they 
must  ...  er  ...  move  on  ...  or,  rather,  off. 

The  valet  speeded  to  fulfill  his  mission. 
He  found  Mr.  Bucknell  too  sleepy  to  dis 
turb,  and  therefore  addressed  himself  to 


160        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

Madame.  He  came  back  shaken  with 
laughter,  hardly  able  to  assume  that  decor 
ous  demeanor  which  Mr.  Marston  exacted 
from  domestics.  When  he  recovered  speech, 
it  was  to  say  that  Mrs.  Bucknell  had 
informed  him  that  they  were  no  strangers, 
but  friends,  the  sister  and  brother  of  Mr. 
Bush,  and  would  do  no  damage.  They  con 
tinued  to  snore  and  knit.  Mrs.  Bucknell 
even  turned  around,  and  from  under  her  big 
bonnet  grinned  and  waved  her  hand  at  Mr. 
Marston,  while  the  valet  delivered  her  mes 
sage,  as  much  as  to  say: 

"It's  all  right.  We  are  all  one  family. 
Do  n't  worry.  Ta — ta!" 

Mr.  Marston  was  transfixed.  Hurrying 
into  his  dressing-gown,  oblivious  of  his  bath, 
he  almost  ran  across  the  hall  and  tapped  at 
the  door  of  his  wife's  apartment. 

Lola  was  having  her  hair  combed  by  her 
maid  before  the  mirror.  Her  husband's 
wild  uncomeliness  gave  her  a  start. 

"Why,  my  dear,  what  is  it?" 

"Come!"  he  said.  His  eyes  were  glued 
to  hers  with  an  ominous  glitter  like  a  snake's 
charming  a  bird. 

"Come,  why,  where?"  asked  Lola,  still 
more  mystified.  But  he  continued  to  beckon 
with  one  finger  and  to  repeat,  "Come!" 

Hastily  tying  the  ribbons    of  her   white 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        161 

robe  de  chambre,  her  hair  upon  her  shoul 
ders,  Mrs.  Marston  followed  her  unshaven 
husband.  He  almost  pushed  her  to  the 
window,  where  from  behind  the  curtain  they 
watched  the  Bucknell  pair,  still  sleeping, 
knitting,  and  immovable. 

"Well!"  said  Mrs.  Marston,  with  a  short 
gasp. 

"It's  a  picnic!"  said  Mr.  Marston.  "I 
think  they've  brought  their  dinner.  They 
evidently  mean  to  spend  the  day,  possibly 
the  night.  Mrs.  Ayrault's  windows  open 
just  here,  do  they  not,  my  dear?" — his  voice 
was  unnaturally  pleasant  and  urbane — "and 
Ackley's,  and  the  Count's,  and  others?  Oh, 
yes,  Mrs.  Sanford's."  (Mrs.  Sanford  was  the 
author.)  "Pretty  sight,  is  n't  it?" 

"Have  you  sent  out?"  asked  Mrs.  Mars- 
ton. 

"Yes,  I  've  sent  out.  I  sent  Marvin.  And 
they  did  n't  go!" 

"They  did  n't  go,  Archibald?"  said  Mrs. 
Marston,  tragically.  "  I  've  said  this  all 
through,  and  you  would  n't  listen." 

"  'All  through?  '  What  are  you  talking 
about,  Lola?"  Mr.  Marston  paced  the  floor 
impatiently.  He  was  certainly  not  hand 
some.  The  sense  that  he  was  not  at  his  best, 
but  at  a  disadvantage,  increased  his  irritabil- 
ity. 


162        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

"That  Americans  would  n't  do." 

"Nonsense!  What  has  'Americans'  to  do 
with  it?" 

"They  don't  know  their  place.  They  are 
impossible.  I  ought  to  have  insisted." 

"  I  say  nonsense!"  Mr.  Marston  spoke 
with  that  sharp,  short  anger  of  the  habitu 
ally  amiable.  He  was  in  fact  exceedingly 
annoyed,  not  exactly  with  his  wife,  but  with 
everybody  who  might  be  about.  I  once  saw 
a  child  fall  and  hurt  herself.  She  ran  across 
the  room  and  slapped  her  brother's  face. 
Humanity's  revenges  are  not  more  logical. 
The  Anarchist  who  cannot  kill  the  God  he 
defies,  curses  and  slays  his  creature  man. 

"If  they  don't  know  their  place  they  've 
got  to  learn  it.  Of  course  I  won't  put  up 
with  this  thing  a  moment  longer.  I  '11  have 
Bush  sent  in  and  either  dismiss  him  .  .  ." 

"  He  is  such  a  nice  man,"  said  Lola.  "So 
sweet  and  patient  over  Archie's  garden. 
Ackerman  never  would  plant  it  in  rows  as 
he  wants;  and  children  like  to  carry  out  their 
own  little  ideas,  and  I  think  it's  a  good  thing. 
It  makes  them  self-reliant;  and  then  Daggett 
did  drink  so,  and  Joseph  is  quite  sober.  He 
works  early  and  late.  He  is  very  industri 
ous.  Daggett  was  frightfully  lazy." 

The  magenta  polonaise  fluttered  on  the 
wind. 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        163 

"O,  of  course,  my  dear,  if  you  like  this 
hugger-mugger  style  of  living  with  chumps 
like  these  eating  clams  on  our  front  piazza 
steps,  I  have  not  another  word  to  say.  Per 
haps  you  wish  to  ask  Mrs.  Bush  to  dinner 
to-night,  or  else  we  'd  better  turn  this  into  a 
tramps'  lodging-house  at  once." 

Mr.  Marston's  sarcasm  was  lost  on  his 
wife,  for  her  head  was  out  of  the  window. 

"She's  got  on  the  queerest  sort  of  a 
bonnet,  and  Archie — heavens!"  Mrs.  Mar- 
ston  gave  a  muffled  scream.  "  He's  got  his 
boots  off!  You  did  n't  /^//me  that,  and  she  's 
nursing  them!  She  's  got  them  in  her  lap!" 

Mr.  Marston  drew  near  with  the  face  of 
one  led  to  execution. 

"You  '11  have  to  go  down,  dear!  " 

"Just  as  I  am?" 

"Without  one  plea!  "  laughed  Lola. 

"  I  '11  be  damned  if  I  do!  I  beg  your  par 
don,  my  dear,  but  really  .  .  ." 

"Then  /will,"  said  Lola.  She  knew  her 
husband  well.  She  knew  he  would  fume 
and  fret,  but  when  there  was  anything  to  be 
done  that  required  moral  courage,  she  did  it. 
There  was  a  reason  for  this.  True  moral 
courage  braves  opinion.  Herein  lay  all  the 
difference  between  their  characters.  Mr. 
Isham  had  guessed  it.  It  was  one  reason 
why  the  satire  which  he  could  point  so 


164        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

mercilessly  was  never  directed  at  Mrs.  Mar- 
ston.  He  addressed  her  always  with  deferen 
tial  courtesy,  listening  for  her  answer  with 
respect. 

Fortunately,  the  Long  Island  mosquito, 
just  then  borne  on  a  gust  from  the  falling 
tides,  blew  inland,  and  began  to  whiz,  and 
buzz,  and  sting,  about  the  head  and  face  of 
the  reposeful  Bucknell.  From  their  post 
of  vantage  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Marston  watched 
the  attack,  saw  Mrs.  Bucknell's  waving  arms 
charge  in  gallant  defense,  smiled  at  her  final 
slow  but  sure  defeat.  The  crimson  lady 
stumbled  to  her  feet,  picked  up  her  shawl, 
folded  her  knitting,  shook  her  slumberous 
lord,  not  over-gently,  gave  a  parting  scowl — 
the  sun  was  in  her  eyes — at  the  colonnade 
and  the  offenders,  unconscious  of  their  mis 
demeanor,  pattered  down  the  steps. 

Lola  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief.  "  But  it 's 
only  put  off,"  she  said.  "  Of  course,  some 
body's  got  to  speak  to  Bush." 

Notwithstanding  his  Anglo-Saxon  dislike 
of  "scenes,"  anger  did  sometimes  give  to 
Mr.  Marston  a  force  which  in  milder  mo 
ments  was  unknown  to  him.  Physically  he 
was  as  brave  as  a  lion,  morally  he  was  a 
poltroon. 

Enough  occurred  on  this  unfortunate  day 
to  let  loose  the  dogs  of  war,  and  of  his 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        165 

wrath.  Later,  while  walking  in  a  portion  of 
his  woods  especially  reserved  for  his  family's 
uses,  he  caught  sight  of  a  man  and  woman 
sauntering  leisurely  before  him.  Their 
heads  were  half  concealed  by  a  blue  parasol, 
the  woman's  gown  trailed  in  the  leaves. 
Yes,  it  must  be  his  wife.  His  wife  and  the 
Congressman,  to  whom  she  had  promised  a 
stroll  about  the  place.  He  called.  They 
stopped.  They  turned.  They  faced  him. 

"Ah,  how  are  you,  Oakes?"  he  said  in 
his  bland  tones,  as  of  a  good  king  to  his 
subject,  from  which  the  other  shrank  as  from 
a  blow.  "  How  are  you,  Mrs.  Bush?" 

"I'm  pretty  well,  I  thank  you;  and  you, 
Mr.  Marston?  "  said  Beth. 

"So,  so.      Pleasant  afternoon,  isn't  it?" 

"  I  do  n't  seem  to  care  for  the  climate 
here,"  said  Mrs.  Bush.  "  It  ain't  anything 
like  so  cool  as  Pontifex." 

"  It's  entirely  a  matter  of  taste,"  said  Mr. 
Marston,  who  wished  to  be  disagreeable,  but 
did  not  know  exactly  what  measures  to 
adopt.  "  I  should  advise  people  who  do 
not  fancy  Long  Island  to  live  elsewhere.  In 
fact  to  avoid  it.  They  can  be  spared.  Ha! 
ha!" 

There  was  no  mistaking  his  meaning;  and 
before  Oakes!  Elizabeth  trembled,  blank 
with  resentment. 


166        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

"  Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Marston,"  she  said, 
shortly,  and  walked  on.  Oakes  followed  her 
with  a  gloomy  bow  to  the  master,  his  step 
weighed  with  import.  At  the  same  time 
his  anger  was  more  directed  against  Eliza 
beth  than  against  Mr.  Marston.  Too  en 
tirely  devoid  of  humor  to  gauge  her  follies 
and  laugh  at  them,  the  young  man  was  not 
lacking  in  certain  instincts  of  propriety, 
which  had  suggested  to  him  that  very  after 
noon  that  they  should  bend  their  steps  in 
another  direction.  He  had  proposed  a  dif 
ferent  walk.  Beth  had  not  listened.  If  he 
entertained  the  hope  of  meeting  Mrs.  Mar 
ston  face  to  face,  it  was  certainly  not  under 
such  conditions,  dancing  attendance  on  her 
farmer's  wife.  Of  course  the  growing  an 
tipathy  between  Mrs.  Bush  and  her  employ 
ers,  the  tumult  of  contradictory  emotions 
which  filled  Beth's  breast,  the  conflicts  of 
her  mind,  were  quite  unknown  to  him  There 
are  those  to  whom  we  find  it  difficult  to  re 
peat  the  unkind  comments  they  inspire.  If 
this  springs  from  some  special  personal  dig 
nity  Percival  Oakes  possessed  it.  Beth  had 
never  dared  reveal  to  him  the  words  with 
which  Mrs.  Marston  seemed  to  degrade 
him.  No,  she  could  not!  Therefore  this 
intrusion  upon  the  lady's  grounds  was  the 
more  excusable.  Nevertheless,  unsophis- 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        167 

ticated  in  such  matters,  ignorant,  he  had 
protested,  and  now  the  whole  unwelcome 
situation  suddenly  dawned  upon  and  sick 
ened  him.  Before  a  man  belonging  to  the 
class  that  he  abhorred,  he  had  been  placed 
in  what  a  false  position!  And  he  owed  it 
all  to  her!  As  he  looked  now  at  the  thin 
outline  of  her  mouth,  and  watched  the  ner 
vous  clutch  with  which  she  grasped  her 
parasol,  he  thought  her  hideous.  In  fact, 
for  a  moment  Beth  had  become  so.  That 
he  should  have  lent  himself  so  long  to  her 
persistent  claims  upon  his  time  may  seem 
peculiar,  for  after  all  he  was  far,  far  above 
her.  His  restless,  ardent  mind  had  wider 
ambitions  than  hers,  for  she  thought  only 
of  herself  and  of  her  child;  he  harbored 
hopes  for  the  race.  Yet  it  perhaps  was  not 
all  mystery.  Hidden  agencies  work  subtle 
spells.  Percival  Oakes  was  young.  He  was 
not  wise.  He  was  alone  in  the  world.  He 
was  conceited,  egotistic,  arrogant  in  spirit, 
but  he  was  loving.  It  is  not  easy  with  all 
these  attributes  to  be  a  stoic.  It  must  be 
remembered  that  if  he  had  no  happy,  joyous 
outlet  for  his  affections,  he  had  no  impure 
one.  He  lived  chastely.  He  had  no  mis 
tress,  and  no  sweetheart.  The  vine-embow 
ered  cottage,  the  bright  lamp,  the  cheerful 
tea-table,  the  enthusiastic  welcome  of  a  very 


i68        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

handsome  woman,  who  dressed  for  him  — 
he  knew  it  —  who  listened  to  his  words  in 
rapturous  admiration,  who  was  zealous  to 
learn  all  he  could  teach,  whom  he  felt  to  be 
no  ordinary  person,  dizzied  his  brain  a  little, 
not  overmuch,  but  a  little.  It  was  the  near 
est  semblance  to  a  home  that  he  had  ever 
known.  It  stilled  in  some  mean  measure 
his  hunger  of  the  heart.  There  was  nothing 
else.  Floribel  Pullen  amused  him.  She 
never  interested  him.  Beth  was  interesting. 
Her  longings,  her  aspirations,  her  dissatis 
factions,  her  complaints,  nay,  her  very  as 
perities,  raised  her  to  quite  a  different 
plane  from  the  giggling  schoolgirls  and 
cackling  dames  of  Paradise.  Floribel  Pul 
len  had  laughingly  told  him  that  he  came  to 
see  her  so  rarely  now,  she  was  sure  "  hand 
some  Mrs.  Bush  "  was  cutting  her  out,  and 
he  had  felt  a  slight  pleasure  at  her  chaffing; 
but  to-night  he  felt  no  pleasure.  A  brutal 
desire  to  revenge  himself  on  the  woman 
beside  him  for  this  encounter  with  Mr.  Mar- 
ston,  and  the  latter's  contemptuous  parting 
exclamation,  led  him  to  say  just  the  one 
thing  which  in  her  sorry  plight  Elizabeth 
could  least  support. 

"  I  saw  Madam  Marston   driving  yester 
day,"  he  said,  in  a  dogged  voice.    "  I  thought 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        169 

her  the  most  beautiful  woman  I  ever  beheld. 
Pity  she  married  that  fool." 

"  I  had  heard  about  Mrs.  Marston  before 
I  seen  her,"  said  Beth,  trying  to  steady  her 
voice,  whose  tone  was  indistinct  and  hoarse. 
"When  I  did  meet  her  I  wasn't  so  much 
struck  with  her  beauty.  She  ain't  exactly 
what  I  'd  call  a  reg'lar  beauty." 

"  Oh,  there  are  beauties — and  beauties," 
said  Oakes,  clearing  his  throat,  taking  long 
swinging  strides,  and  slashing  at  the  leaves 
mischievously  with  a  stick  he  had  cut.  "There 
are  coarse,  showy  beauties,  and  there  are 
others  like  tall  lilies  that  look  as  if  they  'd 
break  if  you  breathed  on  them." 

"  Oh,  I  guess  Mrs.  Marston 's  tough 
enough,"  said  Beth,  with  heightened  color, 
"for  all  the  training  and  ramping  she  does 
from  morning  to  night,  with  all  the  comp'ny 
they  keep."  She  laughed  a  trifle  shrilly. 
"  Why,  Joe  says  they  ain't  to  bed  most  nights 
until  near  morning."  Her  devouring  curios 
ity  about  the  doings  at  the  "  big  house"  had 
led  her  to  frequent  nocturnal  catechisings  of 
her  long-suffering  Joseph. 

"These  grand  ladies,"  said  Oakes,  "have 
the  obligations  of  their  position."  He 
stopped  short,  amazed  at  his  own  Philistin 
ism.  How  unmercifully  he  would  have 
sneered  at  this  phrase  if  launched  by  another. 


1 7o        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

A  flood  of  jealousy,  not  bred  in  the  flesh, 
not  born  of  passion,  but  none  the  less  fierce, 
implacable,  ran  riot  in  an  instant  through 
Elizabeth's  throbbing  veins — one  of  those 
pristine,  savage  torrents,  which  no  mortal 
can  foretell,  no  moral  effort  quench.  The 
enmity  of  sex  to  its  own,  old  as  the  universe, 
which,  in  spite  of  priest,  and  prayer,  and  in 
vocation,  still  sways  the  human  creature, 
swept  her,  resistless. 

Had  Oakes  half  understood  his  influence 
on  this  woman,  the  impression  and  power  of 
his  words,  their  full  significance  to  her,  it  is 
certain  that  with  all  his  boasted  iconoclastic 
theories,  he  would  have  now  been  dumb, 
have  ceased  to  fan  her  animosity;  but  he  was 
self-absorbed,  young,  inexperienced.  He 
therefore  continued  to  exasperate  Elizabeth 
with  foolish  praises  of  Mrs.  Marston's  loveli 
ness. 

"Miss  Pullen  is  one  of  them  coarse  beau 
ties  you  speak  about,  perhaps?  "  she  said, 
ironically.  "  But  the  people  here  say  you 
like  her  very  much,  that  you  're  real  intimate 
with  her."  She  looked  at  him  narrowly, 
with  eyes  that  threw  out  blind  sparks,  like  a 
cat's  in  the  dark.  She  had  lingered  on  the 
word  "  intimate." 

Oakes  raised  his  eyebrows,  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  remained  silent.  He  lacked 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        171 

the  breeding  to  indignantly  defend  Floribel 
from  intended  aspersion,  yet  was  not  quite 
disloyal  enough  to  sully  her. 

"  Why  don't  you  stand  up  for  her?"  cried 
Beth,  lashed  to  fury  by  his  calmness.  "  It 's 
dirty  things  the  folks  here  say  of  her  and 
them  as  dangles  after  her.  If  I  were  a  man 
— or  half  a  one — I  'd  die  before  I  'd  let  a  lot 
of  foul-mouthed  witches  throw  mud  at  my 
.  .  .  my  .  .  .  sweetheart,  and  say  .  .  .  and  say 
...  I  shared  her  love  with  other  men  who 
was  richer  'n  me,  and  winked  at  it." 

She  ended  almost  in  a  shriek.  Even  be 
fore  he  had  abruptly  touched  his  hat  and 
left  her,  without  a  word  of  farewell  or  of 
warning,  she  realized  the  enormity  of  her 
assault,  and  that  it  leveled  her  in  his  regard 
with  the  lowest  of  her  kind.  The  vulgarity 
of  her  speech,  its  uncalled-for  violence,  its 
disgusting  familiarity — unknown  to  men  and 
women  of  her  class,  be  it  said  to  their  honor 
— and  the  comparison  he  would  draw  forever 
between  her  and  .  .  .  that  other  one — not 
Floribel — upon  whom  all  her  rage  now  cen 
tered,  against  whom  he  might  guess  her 
words  were  aimed,  filled  her  with  infinite 
despair.  In  losing  him  she  lost  the  one 
higher  link  between  herself  and  that  refined 
and  graceful  atmosphere  she  so  much 
coveted.  Was  it  her  fault  she  was  not  edu- 


i72        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

cated,  gently  nurtured?  Was  it  a  crime  her 
youth  had  been  so  hard  that  it  had  left  its 
harshness  on  her  features,  its  roughness  on 
her  hands?  But  now  she  had  put  herself 
outside  the  pale.  She  might  rail  against  the 
inhabitants  of  Paradise,  calling  them  her  in 
feriors,  might  boast  to  him,  as  she  had  done, 
of  her  insulting  slights  to  Mrs.  Marston's 
servants,  to  Mr.  Rose,  but  now  he  was  a 
prince,  Pierre  Rose,  compared  to  her — she 
was  a  fish-wife.  One  of  those  bare-legged, 
unsexed  creatures  that  dug  for  clams  down 
on  the  shore,  in  tattered  sunbonnets,  with 
bony  arms,  and  scraping  shovels,  who  swore 
and  quarreled  with  each  other,  and  stopped 
to  drink  at  the  liquor-seller's  on  their  way 
home.  She  staggered  into  the  cottage,  and 
fell  upon  her  face,  across  the  sofa.  Her 
breast  was  rent  with  dry  and  tearless  cries. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

BY  and  by  her  meanings  ceased.  She 
picked  herself  up  from  a  recumbent  to  a  sit 
ting  posture;  she  smoothed  out  the  crumpled 
breadths  of  her  petticoat  with  that  habit  of 
thrift  and  of  order  which  is  not  easily  un 
learned.  Economy  of  work,  that  lesson 
poverty  teaches,  made  her  regret  the  care 
lessness  which  would  necessitate  the  smooth 
ing-iron.  She  began  to  pull  at  the  flowers 
in  her  hat,  whose  edges  had  been  crushed  in 
her  abandonment.  She  dusted  its  edges 
with  her  handkerchief;  then,  pressing  this 
to  her  burning  eyes,  she  sat  down  again  as 
if  to  gather  her  scattered  faculties. 

Now,  Elizabeth  was  a  clever  woman,  albeit 
undisciplined  and  lacking  in  soundness  of 
judgment,  and  already  in  her  heated  brain 
the  thought  was  uppermost  how  to  reinstate 
herself,  to  regain  her  scattered  self-respect, 
to  return  at  least  to  where  she  had  stood 
before.  At  the  mere  memory  of  Oakes  she 
shuddered.  For  the  first  time  she  compre 
hended  the  exaggerated  space  he  had  occu 
pied  in  her  horizon,  the  exalted  importance 

173 


174        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

she  had  attached  to  his  opinions,  the  almost 
febrile  interest  with  which  she  had  listened 
to  his  oracular  discourses,  his  impractical 
denunciations.  Sobered  by  the  occurrences 
of  the  afternoon,  remembering  but  too  dis 
tinctly  Mr.  Marston's  words,  remembering 
too,  the  home  from  which  she  had  come,  to 
which  she  doubtless  must  return  if  she  left 
this,  her  better,  wiser  self,  not  penitent, 
perhaps,  yet  humbled,  warned  her  to  pause, 
to  examine  herself  well.  Such  systematic 
self-examination  had  been  a  part  of  that 
religious  training  which  the  puritanical  in 
fluences  of  her  childhood  fostered.  It 
was  not  unknown  to  her.  Suddenly  the 
mysteries  which  environed  her  seemed  rent. 
She  saw  with  physical  distinctness  a  down 
ward  path,  intoxicating  yet  pernicious,  to 
which  her  steps  were  tending.  We  often 
run  with  astonishing  heedlessness  down  a 
hill,  which  we  know  must  be  reascended,  and 
it  is  only  when  we  have  nearly  reached  the 
bottom  we  stand  aghast  at  the  distance 
stretching  behind.  Many,  discouraged,  re 
main  in  the  valley;  they  have  not  limbs  or 
wind  for  the  return,  but  Elizabeth's  limbs  and 
wind  were  not  yet  exhausted.  No  perversion 
is  immediate.  There  are  no  sudden  sins. 
The  soil  is  rotten.  The  final  crumble  is  op 
portunity. 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        175 

She  looked  about  her. 

What  a  heaven  of  peace  was  this  little 
house,  how  snug,  how  pretty,  how  dear!  She 
remembered  her  enchantment  when  in  those 
early  days  of  spring  it  had  first  met  her 
view.  How  well  in  health  they  had  been 
here!  Dottie,  herself,  and  Joe.  Joe — with 
compunction  she  now  remembered  how  small 
was  the  time  she  had  given  to  him  lately. 
He  had  been  indisposed  one  day  with  a  slight 
feverishness,  and  she  felt  vexed  at  giving  up 
her  lesson  on  the  mandolin  with  Mr.  Oakes 
because  her  husband  lay  upon  the  sofa  in 
the  best  parlor  while  his  room  was  being 
swept  and  aired.  She  had  been  cross  to 
him,  chiding  him  for  imprudence,  for  sitting 
out  on  chilly  nights  without  his  coat,  con 
tracting  malaria,  and  giving  trouble  through 
his  own  folly.  Then  .  .  .  Dottie  —  where 
was  the  child  now?  Surely,  surely,  it  was 
her  supper  time.  She  had  not  exactly  ne 
glected  Dottie,  but  she  too  in  all  these  new 
exactions  of  dress  and  entertainment,  in  all 
these  trips  to  town,  and  readings,  and  Span 
ish  madrigals,  had  been  sometimes  in  the 
way;  once  or  twice  forgotten.  Then  the 
money!  Beth  grew  pale  when  she  remem 
bered  all  the  money  she  had  spent,  and  .  .  . 
on  herself,  her  finer  underclothing,  her 
dresses,  hats,  shoes,  stockings,  gloves,  and 


1 76        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

the  parasol  with  lace  upon  it!  Joe's  wages 
had  been  stretched,  nay  overdrawn.  There 
was  a  bill  she  could  not  meet  this  month. 
She  had  not  liked  to  tell  him  of  it  lest  it 
should  worry  him. 

"  Dottie,  Dottie,"  she  cried,  with  this  new 
rush  of  contrition  upon  her,  a  sort  of  home 
sickness  to  find  her  child  and  clasp  her  for 
an  instant  to  her  breast.  She  ran  toward 
the  door,  "  Dottie,  Dottie!"  As  she  reached 
the  sill  her  husband  crossed  it.  Something 
in  his  face  arrested  her,  breathless,  upon  its 
threshold. 

Mr.  Marston,  when  he  left  Mrs.  Bush  and 
Mr.  Oakes  to  finish  their  twilight  ramble, 
was  not  in  the  sweetest  of  humors.  His 
temper,  it  might  be  surmised,  was  only  a 
trifle  less  ruffled  than  theirs.  As  he  crossed 
his  lawn  he  caught  sight  of  Joe  working  in 
the  vegetable  garden.  He  quickened  his 
pace  and  was  soon  near  him  upon  the  other 
side  of  the  hedge.  Stooping  over  some 
roots  he  was  conscientiously  digging  up,  Joe 
raised  his  head  at  his  master's  summons. 

"  Here,  Bush,  here." 

Wiping  his  hand  on  his  forehead,  and 
throwing  down  his  trowel,  Joe  in  shirt 
sleeves,  with  his  old  straw  hat  rammed 
down  over  his  ears,  prepared  to  respond. 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        177 

"Ay,  ay,  sir."  He  slowly  stepped  through 
the  furrows  with  the  measured  step  of  the 
agriculturalist,  which  is  never  accelerated, 
nor  would  be  though  the  heavens  fell. 

"  Here,  come  through  the  upper  gate. 
I  '11  walk  up  and  meet  you.  I  want  to  speak 
to  you."  Obedient,  Joe  turned  northward. 
In  a  few  minutes  the  two  men  stood  side  by 
side  in  the  open  field. 

"  What  are  you  doing?  "  Mr.  Marston's 
annoyance  had  cooled  a  little,  the  exercise 
having  increased  his  heart's  action,  but  he 
was  angry  at  having  to  be  angry.  Such  de 
tails  bored  him. 

"  I  was  diggin'  up  of  them  roots." 

"  A  waste  of  time  for  you.  Let  Charlie 
do  that.  It's  mere  child's  play!  Did  n't  I 
tell  you  I  wanted  the  hay  taken  in?  There  's 
thunder  in  the  air." 

"  The  hay  won't  get  a-wettin'.  Don't  you 
be  afeared.  There  won't  be  no  wet  spell  at 
present.  I  held  on  to  hitch  up  after  loam 
for  the  farm  road.  Farmer  Taft  's  got  a 
fine  lot,  sir,  and  it 's  a  short  haul.  There 
ain't  no  rain  comin'.  It 's  looked  that  way 
every  night  for  three  weeks.  The  drought's 
on  us.  I  knows  it.  It  won't  let  up  on  us 
yet." 

"When  I  say  a  thing's  to  be  done  it's  to 
be  done,  you  hear,  and  not  to  be  neglected 


178        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

for  something  less  important,"  said  Mr. 
Marston  lashing  himself.  "  I  don't  want 
explanations  or  excuses.  I  'm  sick  of 
them." 

Joe  stopped,  astonished.  He  was  unac 
customed  to  being  so  addressed,  unless  in 
deed,  by  his  wife.  He  was  himself  so  patient 
that  he  rarely  provoked  others,  and  his 
wife's  "tantrums,"  as  he  called  them  to 
himself,  hardly  counted.  He  had  learned 
to  bear  them  or  escape  from  them  with 
equanimity.  "She's  kind  of  excitable," 
he  would  say,  apologetically.  "  She  don't 
mean  the  half  she  says."  He  supposed  all 
women  to  be  alike,  and  their  words  to  mean 
little.  His  mother  had  a  high  temper  too. 
His  experience  of  the  sex  was  limited. 

"I  tries  to  please  ye."  His  eyes,  full  of 
melancholy,  dwelt  for  a  moment  on  Mr. 
Marston,  who  turned  away  his  own,  uncom 
fortable  under  their  pleading  scrutiny. 

"  I  know — I  know,"  he  said,  more  kindly. 
"  But  there  are  things  that  don't  please  me 
— not  at  all — not  at  all;  which  must  be 
spoken  about,  and  it 's  deuced  disagreeable, 
I  can  tell  you." 

Joe  pushed  back  his  hat  and  grunted  some 
inaudible  protest.  Mr.  Marston  lowered  his 
tone  to  a  confidential  key. 

"  This  morning  my  wife  ...  I  ...  we  .  .  . 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        179 

when  we  looked  out  of  my  .  .  .  her  .  .  .  our 
windows  .  .  .  hem — upon  the  terrace,  saw 
some  persons  ...  er  ...  a  man  and  a  woman 
sitting  close  to  the  house,  taking  their  ease. 
He  had  pulled  off  his  shoes.  Mrs.  Marston 
was  greatly  shocked." 

"  I  guess  it  must  have  been  my  sister 
Mary  and  her  husband,"  Joe  smiled,  broadly. 
He  was  relieved.  He  had  feared  his  work 
did  not  suit. 

"  Exactly;  it  was  your  sister,  so  my  man 
Marvin  tells  me.  She  had  on  a  most  extraor 
dinary  dress."  At  the  memory  Mr.  Mar- 
ston's  anger  of  the  morning  returned  and  he 
scowled.  "  One  which  .  .  .er  .  .  .  made  her 
peculiarly  conspicuous  to  our  guests,  even 
from  a  great,  great  distance.  Such  a  cos 
tume  is  a  blot  on  a  landscape.  I  really  can  't 
permit  it." 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  speak  to  her  about 
that  dress?  "  and  a  quizzical  expression  rose 
to  Joe's  lips.  "  Her  heart  's  sot  on  it. 
Sister  Mary  never  was  tasty  like  Elizabeth — 
Mrs.  Bush,  I  mean.  Allays  had  a  hanker 
ing  after  cryin'  colors.  Now  I  never  cared 
for  'em  myself." 

"Nonsense,  Bush!"  said  Mr.  Marston, 
now  thoroughly  aroused  again.  "  What 
have  I,  what  can  Mrs.  Marston  have  to  do 
with  the  accouterments  of  your  family  unless 


i8o        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

indeed  .  .  ."  He  remembered  his  wife's 
animadversions  upon  Beth's  outfit,  and  won 
dered  if  he  ought  to  mention  it  here.  "  I 
mean  if  they  keep  out  of  our  sight  they  can 
wear  anything  they  please.  Your  grounds 
about  the  cottage  are  quite  large  enough 
for  your  visitors — quite — "  his  wrongs 
whipped  him  now  to  say  all. 

"I  '11  speak  to  'em — to  my  wife,"  said  Joe. 
The  idea  of  facing  Beth  with  such  a  message 
sent  his  heart  into  his  boots. 

"  Really,  Bush,  your  family  seem  to  have 
no  sense  of  decency,  of  reserve.  Here  this 
very  afternoon  after  the  unpleasant — most 
unpleasant  ...  er  ...  affair  of  the  morning, 
I  met  your  wife  close  to  the  plateau  upon 
Mrs.  Marston's  favorite  path,  with  that 
ridiculous  schoolmaster  at  her  heels.  He 
is  n't  welcome  here,  do  you  hear?  I  won't 
have  him  hanging  about.  I  dislike  the  man. 
I  distrust  him.  I  dislike  him  excessively. 
I  won't  have  him  on  my  grounds,  and  you 
can  tell  him  so  with  my  compliments." 

Joe  paled  under  the  tan  which  made  his 
skin  resemble  some  animal's  hide. 

"  Do  you  mean,"  he  asked  slowly,  "  that 
I  'm  to  tell  the  schoolmaster  he  ain't  to  call 
on  us  any  more?  " 

"  I  said  nothing  of  the  kind — nothing.     I 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        181 

repeat  to  you  I  've  nothing  to  do  with  your 
household  and  its  arrangements.  You  can 
receive  anybody  you  like  unless — unless 
dangerous  characters." 

"  Dangerous  .  .  ?  " 

"  I  'm  alluding  now  to  no  one  in  particu 
lar.  Of  course,  this  is  a  gossipy  little  village 
— so  I  'm  told.  So  the  maids  tell  Mrs.  Mar- 
ston.  I  don't  hear  any  of  these  things. 
Nor  does  she,  for  that  matter — Mrs.  Marston, 
I  mean.  But  a  young  woman  as  good-look 
ing  as  your  wife  cannot  be  too  careful  in  such 
a  community.  With  her  husband — her  child 
— the  dairy,  she  should  have  no  time  for  .  .  . 
er  .  .  .  frivolity." 

"  My  wife  ain't  ever  been  the  light  kind," 
said  Joe,  in  changed  accents.  "  Nor  has 
any  one  ever  afore  accused  her  of  that  in  my 
hearin'  as  I  knows  of." 

The  murmur  of  the  thunderstorm  seemed 
to  lower  near,  enveloping  them  in  its  heavy 
breath. 

"My  good  Joseph,  no  one  does  now.  I  'm 
talking  to  you  as  I  would  to  a  friend — one 
of  my  friends."  He  made  a  gesture  of  his 
hand  toward  the  house  which  loomed  stately 
against  the  sky.  There  was  a  pause. 

"  If  that's  all  you  have  to  say  to  me  I  '11 
quit  work  now,  sir.  It  's  six  o'clock." 


182       EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

"That's  all."  Mr.  Marston  smiled;  but 
there  was  no  responding  smile  on  Joseph's 
face.  Upon  it  had  descended  a  settled 
sternness.  He  pulled  his  hat  down  once 
again  over  his  ears  and  eyes,  and  plodded 
back  into  the  garden  to  get  his  tools. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

"Joseph  Bush,"  said  Beth,  "what  ails 
you?  Is  it  the  chills  again?  " 

Joe  entered.  He  divested  himself  care 
fully  of  his  coat,  folded  it,  and  placed  it 
upon  a  chair,  but  he  kept  his  hat  on.  They 
were  in  the  "  best  parlor,"  that  shaded, 
cared-for  room  which  had  gone  through 
such  transformation  since  Beth  first  reigned 
there.  Something  ominous  seemed  fore 
boded  by  this  interview  between  husband 
and  wife  in  these  official  quarters  reserved 
for  "  company,"  swept  and  garnished  for 
days  of  feasting.  Joe  sat  down  by  the 
table,  resting  his  arms  upon  it,  his  chin 
propped  by  his  thumb  and  index  whose 
dovetail  nails  sank  in  his  thin  jaw. 

"No,"  he  said.  "I'm  some  better  of 
them,  I  ain't  got  the  chills." 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  His  face  and  man 
ner  betokened  some  unusual  occurrence,  and 
there  was  a  kind  of  desperate  resignation  in 
her  question,  unaccompanied  by  her  habitual 
sharpness  of  tone. 

183 


184        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

Now  the  messages  with  which  Mr.  Mars- 
ton  had  charged  Joe  were  not  calculated  to 
make  him  look  forward  with  a  great  degree 
of  equanimity  to  this  meeting  with  his  wife, 
and  to  say  that  it  required  all  his  courage  to 
deliver  them — and  deliver  them  he  would, 
come  what  might — is  to  state  the  matter 
moderately. 

"  What  is  it?  "  There  was  again  a  note 
of  hopelessness  in  her  words. 

From  his  somewhat  dejected  pose  he 
looked  up,  surprised  at  her  unusual  meek 
ness. 

"Where's  Mary?"  he  asked,  looking 
about  him,  weakly  trying  to  gain  time. 

She  remembered  that  the  Bucknells  had 
harnessed  one  of  the  farm-horses  to  the 
carry-all,  and  had  gone  for  a  drive  as  far  as 
the  mill,  taking  Dottie  with  them.  They 
had  not  yet  returned.  She  told  him  so. 

"Ain't  they  goin'  home  Tuesday?  he 
asked,  as  if  preoccupied. 

"Yes,"  said  Beth.  "Your  ma's  written 
the  hayin'  's  on,  and  she  wants  Azubel  Buck- 
nell  back." 

There  fell  a  silence.  Joe  was  the  first  to 
break  it. 

"It  ain't  the  chills  I  've  got,  but  my  dis 
missal,  or  what  comes  near  to  it.  Mr.  Mars- 
ton — the  master — ain't  satisfied." 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        185 

A  purple  flush  of  shame  rushed  to  Beth's 
brow  and  cheeks.  She  stood  up  before  her 
husband,  speechless. 

"  I  guess,"  went  on  Joe,  in  a  dull  mono 
tone,  "  I  guess  he  ain't  used  to  our  ways  nor 
we  to  his'n."  He  looked  that  she  should 
rant  or  shriek.  Her  silence  startled  him. 
"  I  don't  know  as  you've  liked  it  here,  though 
I  must  say  as  how  we've  never  had  more 
comforts  nor  better  pay,  and  the  child 
a-plenty  to  eat  and  good  air  to  breathe.  It 
ain't  your  disposition  to  be  cheerful  as  some 
folks  is  with  nothin'.  You  're  terrible  am 
bitious,  but  I  like  the  place.  I  thought  as 
how  when  you  was  fitted  out,  and  fixed  up, 
perhaps  we  could  save  and  lay  away  for 
when  we're  old  and  not  so  fit  to  toil.  The 
pay  is  good.  I  never  dreamed  to  make  so 
much.  Ye  see,  my  wife,"  he  went  on,  "  if 
you  was  wantin'  to  be  a  lady — I  mean  to  live 
like  them  high-falutin  ones  does  over  there 
in  the  big  house,  like  Miss  Marston  does  — 
you  had  n't  ought  to've  married  me.  I  ain't 
the  kind  as  ever  can  give  it  to  ye.  I  ain't 
a  lazy  feller.  I  works  and  works  and 
works,  but  I  ain't  got  the  hang  of  it.  I 
can  work  myself,  but  I  ain't  got  the  hang 
of  gettin'  work  out  of  other  men.  There's 
them  as  has  it  and  them  as  has  n't  it,  and 
there's  no  use  of  cryin'  over  spilt  milk." 


1 86       EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

The  familiar  quotation  seemed  to  encour 
age  him,  and  he  raised  his  head  and  smiled 
a  little. 

"Tell  the  truth,  Joe,"  said  Beth,  in  a  low 
voice,  the  crimson  flush  still  on  her  forehead 
although  her  lips  were  white  and  dry,  "  It 's 
me  the  Marston's  ain't  satisfied  with.  It 
ain't  you.  You  done  your  work  perfectly 
and  they  know  it." 

"  I  seen  my  duty  and  I  done  it,"  said  Joe, 
evasively;  "but  it  seems  with  them  high- 
falutin  folks  that  ain't  enough." 

"Well?" 

"  That  'ere  dress  of  Mary's  she's  so  sot  on 
—  I  bet  she's  got  it  on  this  afternoon  — 
seems  she  and  Azubel  went  a-traipsing 
around  the  big  house,  and  sot  themselves 
right  down  under  the  portico,  and  Mary's 
dress  a-flarin'  and  — "  Joe  scratched  his 
head  —  "the  Marstons'  comp'ny  could  see 
it  a  mile  off,  and  it  wan't  suitable." 

"  Did  they  tell  Mary  Bucknell  to  leave?" 
asked  Beth,  with  agitation. 

"  Now,  I  don't  know  as  they  did,"  said 
Joe,  reflectively,  raising  his  eyebrows;  "but 
Mr.  Marston,  he  says  they  did  n't  want  any 
of  us  to  come  about  their  grounds  more'n 
we  need. 

Beth  was  strangling,  but  she  gulped  down 
the  rising  flood  of  words  —  where  was  the 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        187 

use?  Mortification  at  its  climax  finds  speech 
inadequate. 

Joe  cleared  his  throat.  The  worst  was  to 
come,  and  Beth  knew  it;  but  she  would  not 
help  him.  He  cleared  his  throat,  but  was 
dumb.  He  eyed  her  piteously  as  if  asking 
her  to  spare  him,  or  come  to  his  relief. 

"There  was  more  he  said,  and  things  as 
hurt  me." 

"  Hurt  you?" 

"  Beth,  I  ain't  been  a  hard  husband  to 
ye,  has  I?  " 

Hard  to  her?  He?  As  she  looked  at  the 
patient  lines  about  his  mouth,  and  those  sad 
eyes  that  could  not  look  a  lie,  and  the  round 
shoulders  and  awkward  feet,  always  so  ready 
to  do  her  errands,  a  tenderness  unusual  to 
her  swept  her  soul.  The  burning  at  her 
heart  rose  in  moisture  to  her  eyes. 

"  No — no — no — my  husband,  you  ain't 
been  hard!  "  She  laid  her  hand  upon  his 
neck.  He  took  it  in  his  and  pressed  it  gently. 

"  We've  seen  good  days  together  and  bad 
ones  since  we  went  a-courtin'  in  your  aunt's 
orchard.  Do  you  remember,  Elizabeth? 
Some  of  both.  I  've  sometimes  thought 
when  Oakes  was  around,  and  he  and  you 
and  Miss  Pullen  talkin'  so  smart  and  lively, 
as  how  I  'm  a  rough  sort  of  a  chap  for  such 
society.  I  ain't  one  as  is  quick  like  you, 


188        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

Beth,  to  pick  up  ideas.  I  guess  I  stick  pretty 
fast  to  the  old  ones.  Well,  I  was  a-sayin',  what 
with  you  and  Oakes,  and  your  fine  dresses, 
Beth,  and  all — with  my  wish  to  stay  here 
and  put  by  something  for  ma  who  is  old  now 
and  ailin',  and  worrits  with  the  farm  —  I 
ain't  got  the  grit  to  make  a  fortune  easy  — 
what  with  it  all,  seems  as  if  we  weren't  as 
happy  as  we  might  be." 

Something    fell    and    splashed    upon   his 
forehead.     He  looked  up  at  herwonderingly. 
"  Don't  take  on  so,  Beth." 
"  Did  he  say  anything  against  me?  " 
Then    heroically   Joe  said    to    her:   "He 
don't  like  you  walkin' around  with  .   .   .  the 
schoolmaster  .   .  ." 

"Well,"  said  Beth,  "he  can  rest  quiet. 
Mr.  Oakes  and  I  will  do  no  more  walking 
around,  I  guess." 

Joe  was  puzzled.  She  felt  almost  pleased 
that  a  slight  was  to  be  put  upon  Oakes.  She 
wished  Mr.  Marston  had  openly  insulted 
him. 

"I  thought  you  and  he  were  mighty  good 
friends,"  said  Joe,  emboldened.  Maybe  it 's 
as  well  to  give  him  the  slip  a  bit.  I  guess 
he  thinks  a  heap  of  himself." 

"Yes,"  said  Beth.     "I  guess  he  does." 
"  He  thought  a  good  deal  of  you — eh?" 
"Pshaw! "said  Beth.     Her  tears  were  dry 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        189 

now.  The  color  had  faded  from  her  cheeks 
and  brow.  Her  heart  beat  more  quietly. 

"Well,"  said  Joe,  "I  guess  I  'd  better  go 
and  clean  up  for  supper."  He  got  up  and 
walked  to  the  door.  She  followed  him. 

"Joe,"  she  said,  "I  'm  going  to  try  to  get 
along.  You  told  me  how  it  would  be  before 
we  came.  That  we'd  be  little  better  than 
their  servants.  I  would  n't  believe  it.  I 
will  try  to  bear  it  for  the  child's  sake." 

To  this  woman  death  was  preferable  to 
acknowledgement  of  defeat.  Since  her 
other  methods  were  deemed  offensive  and 
absurd  she  thought  she  might  regain  some 
status  through  excess  of  sacrifice. 

"  I  will  do  what  I  can." 

He  thanked  her  with  a  look,  and  as  they 
heard  the  carry-all  rumble  up  and  stop  with 
its  dusty  load,  the  commonplace  once  more 
closed  in  upon  them  with  its  inevitable  pall. 

Mrs.  Marston's  dove-eyes  grew  big  with 
approval  at  her  husband's  prowess  when  in 
his  finest  ex-cathedra  manner  he  told  her  of 
his  encounter  with  Bush. 

"  I  virtually  dismissed  them  if  things 
did  n't  improve,"  he  said,  exaggerating  a 
little. 

"  Such  things  are  so  unpleasant!  I  'm  so 
grateful  to  you  for  taking  it  off  of  me." 


190       EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

He  continued  to  boast.  He  had  even 
attacked  the  wife  and  sister-in-law;  unpleas 
ant,  of  course,  but  necessary.  A  place  like 
theirs  could  not  be  managed  without  disci 
pline. 

She  applauded  admiringly.  "  Mrs.  Dag- 
gett  was  such  a  simple  person.  It  seems 
so  odd  to  have  a  farmer's  wife  who  needs 
to  be  coddled." 

"  Well,  she  is  very  independent.  I  imagine 
she  henpecks  poor  Joseph.  Of  course  we 
need  not  keep  them  a  moment  if  they  do 
not  suit  us.  They  are  only  servants  after 
all." 

"She  hates  the  idea,  the  maids  tell  me. 
American  farmers  are  not  exactly  that." 

"  All  nonsense!  I  pay  him — why  Rose  is 
a  scholar  compared  to  Bush.  He  speaks 
several  languages." 

"  I  know,"  said  Lola,  laughing,  "but  then 
he  wears  a  white  cap  when  he  is  at  work. 
Fancy  Bush  in  a  white  paper  cap!  " 

The  picture  sent  them  both  into  a  peal  of 
merriment. 

"The  difference  is  just  this,"  said  Lola. 
"  Rose  will  wear  his  cap,  and  so  will  his 
son,  and  his  son's  son.  But  Joe's  son,  if  he 
had  one,  might  be  President  of  the  United 
States.  If  he  took  after  his  mamma  he 
would  certainly  try  to  be." 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        191 

"  It 's  all  folderol!  That  is  the  reason  of 
all  this  discontent  and  dissatisfaction;  every 
boor  trying  to  ape  his  betters,  to  do  what  is 
not  expected  of  him.  Agriculture  is  as 
honorable  a  career  as  any  other,  and  a  far 
more  healthy  one.  Why  in  Heaven's  name 
cannot  our  farmers'  sons  be  satisfied  to  till 
the  earth,  and  not  be  thirsting  to  be  petty 
lawyers,  doctors,  and  politicians?  " 

Lola's  visual  organs  suffered  a  moment's 
eclipse,  in  which,  on  a  dark  background, 
loomed  a  butcher's  cart.  She  only  said: 

"Dearest,  these  hopes  are  perhaps  whole 
some.  This  wish  for  higher  education,  for 
a  betterment  of  both  men's  and  women's 
spheres  is  robust,  and  probably  vivifying. 
Such  persons  are  more  apt  to  be  industrious 
and  thrifty." 

"  I  don't  want  people  to  be  stagnant,  to 
remain  in  ruts,"  said  Mr.  Marston.  (Had 
the  butcher  in  some  hypnotic  current  flashed 
from  her  mind  to  his?)  "  I  am  always  ready 
to  give  a  helping  hand — you  know  this,  my 
love.  Our  self-made  men  are  often,  nay 
generally,  our  best.  Some  of  them  indeed, 
for  all  we  know,  may  be  descended  from 
noble  ancestry." 

He  looked  away  as  if  across  imaginary 
continents  full  of  moated  granges,  tur 
rets,  and  battlements,  and  heralded  escutch- 


192        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

eons,  where  knights  sat  at  the  feet  of  ladies, 
coiffed  with  the  hennin. 

"  Poverty  drove  some  of  them  across  the 
seas  to  found  families  as  powerful  as  the 
old  ...  er  ...  but  it  is  false  ambitions 
whose  expressions  I  resent." 

"  It  is  sometimes  so  difficult,"  said  Lola, 
"  to  know  which  are  the  false  and  which  are 
the  real." 

Then  he  told  her  there  was  to  be  a  polit 
ical  meeting  in  the  village  soon  for  the  fall 
election.  It  would  take  place  out  of  doors. 
He  had  been  asked  to  speak.  He  meant  to 
take  active  interest. 

"  I  have  n't  any  particular  gift  in  that 
line,"  he  said.  "But  I  could  n't  refuse." 

"  I  shall  be  frightened  to  death  if  I  go  to 
hear  you,"  said  Lola.  "  I  thought  you  never 
spoke." 

"  Oh,  I  '11  try  not  to  make  a  mess  of  it. 
I  've  got  through  fairly  well  once  or  twice 
at  dinners." 

Then  he  unfolded  to  her  his  political 
tenets,  to  which  she  listened,  dutifully  awed. 


CHAPTER  XV 

When  Mrs.  Marston  stepped  out  on  the 
rickety  porch  after  her  visit  she  was  sur 
prised  to  hear  pattering  drops  of  rain.  She 
was  also  surprised  to  find  it  already  so  dark. 
Her  call,  this  late  summer  afternoon,  had 
been  upon  a  neighbor,  an  humble  one,  whose 
cottage  lay  on  the  edge  of  the  pine  copse,  a 
mile  from  Marston  Terrace.  The  home 
ward  road  was  a  lonely  one.  In  fact,  she 
would  shortly  leave  the  public  lane,  which 
was  itself  unfrequented,  to  strike  into  a  still 
more  isolated  pathway  across  the  woods. 
She  knew  she  had  plenty  of  time  before  her 
dinner-hour  of  half-past  eight — for  she  was 
a  rapid  walker — nevertheless,  she  was  some 
what  horrified  to  find,  on  consulting  the 
shimmering  morsel  which  was  caught  by  a 
knot  of  diamonds  on  the  lapel  of  her  vest, 
that  it  was  already  nearly  eight  o'clock. 
She  had  sat  and  chatted,  regardless  of  the 
hour,  so  rapidly  the  moments  flew  in  the 
monotonous  droning  of  old  Mrs.  Taft's 
talk.  Time  passes  swiftly  when  unmarked 

193 


i94        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

by  shock.  She  had  brought  only  a  lace 
sunshade,  and  was  shod  in  light,  thin 
shoes,  but  she  picked  up  her  petticoat, 
raised  the  insufficient  parasol  to  protect  at 
least  her  head  and  hat,  and  started  off  almost 
on  a  run.  A  gust  of  wind  shook  her  gar 
ments.  It  blew  her  hair  wildly  about,  whisk 
ing  short  locks  into  her  eyes.  She  looked 
up.  The  clouds  were  heavy.  Almost  in  the 
zenith  they  were  black  as  ink.  Now  and 
again  they  emitted  a  lightning  flash,  fol 
lowed  by  quick,  reverberating  thunder. 

"  One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  seven, 
eight,  nine.  If  I  can  count  nine  between 
the  flash  and  the  thunder  it  is  not  so  very 
near." 

But  when  she  had  gone  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
she  had  ceased  to  count.  There  was  such  a 
confusion  of  flash  and  roar  that  she  lost  her 
courage.  The  inky  cloud  had  burst.  It 
rained  in  torrents,  sweeping  the  country  in 
its  white  sheet  of  unchained  water. 

"  I  was  a  dreadful  goose  to  start,"  thought 
Lola.  "  Shall  I  turn  back?  " 

It  seemed  better  to  push  forward.  They 
would  be  anxious  about  her  at  home,  and 
then  it  would  be  such  a  bore.  Her  gown 
sacrificed,  damp  feet,  a  crushed  bonnet,  were 
not  irremediable  evils.  She  did  not  mind 
the  rain  and  hurricane.  The  electric  cur- 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        195 

rents  in  the  air  alone  shook  her  nerves.  She 
gasped  a  little. 

"  I  '11  go  on  now  whatever  happens,"  she 
thought. 

To  accept  the  tempest  without  struggle 
brings  a  sense  of  freedom  and  of  excitement. 
She  felt  no  chill;  she  was  in  fact  burning  up 
with  the  movement  and  exercise.  She  found 
the  path  half  hidden  under  its  wet  oak  leaves. 
Here  the  pines  grew  rare,  merging  into  the 
oak  wood  beyond.  She  met  no  one.  One 
rarely  did;  the  surroundings  were  rural,  not 
suburban.  The  few  inhabitants  of  the  ad 
joining  farms  were  peaceable  and  decent 
people.  There  were  no  tramps  so  far  from 
a  railroad.  She  had,  therefore,  no  fear  of 
men.  She  plowed  on  an  eighth  of  a  mile 
more.  Her  draperies  streamed  and  dripped. 
On  her  cheeks  flamed  two  bright  stains. 
The  air  was  stifling,  except  when  the  gusts 
blew  their  freshening  breath  upon  her.  It  was 
just  then  there  came  that  terrible  experience, 
that  horrible  lightning  stroke  ahead  of  her, 
that  crash  and  swirl  of  terror  which  left  her 
limbs  numb,  her  hands  palsied,  her  heart 
cold.  One  thing,  however,  it  revealed  to 
her.  Fifty  feet  from  her  was  the  Dougherty 
house. 

Yes,  nestling  under  the  foliage,  in  its 
scant  clearing,  with  its  miserable  green  shut- 


196        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

ters,  its  peeling  walls,  one  or  two  forgotten 
hen-coops  overturned  at  its  east  end,  it  rose 
before  her. 

"  Heaven  save  me,"  thought  Lola.  "  I 
can  perhaps  find  shelter  in  here.  Creep 
into  a  window  possibly." 

She  had  made  sure  that  she  was  not 
"struck,"  that  her  limbs  were  still  her  own, 
and  not  some  one  else's,  and  that  Dougherty's 
cottage  was  a  sanctuary  of  refuge  sent  to 
her  by  Providence. 

Dougherty  was  a  poor  Irishman,  who  had 
suddenly  come  into  an  unexpected  inheri 
tance.  He  had  been  left  a  farm  and  some 
money  by  a  distant  relative.  He  and  his 
brood  had  hastened  to  pull  up  stakes  and 
rush  to  the  seat  of  their  new  acquisitions, 
and  the  old  house  with  its  patch  of  land 
was  now  offered  for  sale.  Mr.  Marston, 
upon  a  part  of  whose  domain  it  infringed, 
was  in  treaty  for  its  purchase.  As  she  hur 
ried  up  through  the  high  weeds,  which 
choked  the  approach,  her  hand  already 
raised  to  force,  if  possible,  an  ill-locked 
latch,  the  door  swung  open.  A  man's  tall 
form  appeared  upon  the  threshold — 

"Don't  be  in  the  least  alarmed,  Mrs. 
Marston,  it 's  I — Mr.  Oakes — Percival  Oakes 
— the  schoolmaster." 

But  she  could  bear  no  more.     Her  nerves 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        197 

unstrung  by  her  battle  with  the  elements, 
her  hands  still  tremulous  from  contact  with 
their  fury,  she  gave  a  faint  cry,  and  fell  back 
against  a  tree-trunk,  panting,  with  blanched 
lips  and  distended  pupils. 

"  I  say  it  's  Mr.  Oakes,"  the  voice  con 
tinued,  quietly.  "This  door  was  locked,  of 
course.  I  forced  it  with  my  knife  .  .  ." 

He  came  up  to  her  quickly,  but  she  could 
not  speak  to  him.  He,  seeing  her  plight, 
threw  one  arm  about  her,  and,  lifting  more 
than  leading  her,  drew  her  toward  the  open 
doorway,  through  which  a  flood  of  light 
escaped  into  the  gloom.  She  rested  her 
head  against  his  shoulder  looking  up  into 
his  eyes  in  helpless  weakness. 

"  I  have  had  a  great  fright,"  she  said,  by- 
and-by,  when  she  regained  her  voice.  "  You 
must  forgive  me." 

"It's  I  who  need  forgiveness  for  adding 
to  your  fears."  He  had  now  released  her, 
and  was  standing  at  some  distance  from  her. 
He  had  made  a  pillow  out  of  his  coat  for 
her  head,  and  had  installed  her  on  a  rude 
bench  cut  in  pine  which  was  wedged  into 
the  wall  and  projected  toward  the  open 
grate,  resting  on  a  wooden  pin.  Some  cones 
and  fagots  were  burning  on  the  hearth, 
emitting  fragrant  warmth.  It  was  from 
these  the  light  had  shone  upon  her  entrance. 


198        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

They  filled  the  room  with  a  yellow,  resinous 
vapor.  A  rough  table  stood  in  the  center 
of  the  apartment;  too  bulky,  perhaps,  for 
the  general  removal,  it  had  been  left  to  be 
disposed  of  with  the  property.  Lately 
whitewashed,  the  walls  were  not  unclean, 
save  from  the  dust  of  a  few  weeks'  neglect. 
But  the  dust  of  pines,  of  dead  leaves,  and 
of  sand  is  not  the  dust  of  cities.  It  is  pur 
ple  and  golden,  and  perfumed  as  if  blown 
from  flowers.  The  fitful  gleam  of  the  fire 
cast  a  mantle  of  charity  over  the  hut's  de 
nuded  poverty. 

Mrs.  Marston  noticed  that  on  the  table 
there  was  a  plate,  a  knife  and  fork,  a  flask 
and  glass,  some  biscuits,  an  open  basket  in 
which  was  a  pile  of  freshly-caught  fish. 

"Were  you  preparing  your  supper?"  she 
asked,  smiling. 

Oakes  was  still  standing  awkwardly  close 
to  the  table,  looking  down  at  her.  The 
storm-clouds  seemed  to  have  left  their  gray- 
ness  in  his  eyes,  whose  gravity  was  drowned 
in  shadows.  He  was  still  trying  to  recover 
from  his  astonishment;  that  amazement  we 
feel  when  our  time  has  arrived  at  last.  But 
there  are  joys  we  fain  put  off  lest  reaching 
us  they  find  us  unprepared.  Would  the 
grains  of  this  hour-glass  filter  upon  his 
heart  and  stop  its  beatings,  or  would  they 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        199 

sift  a  respite  on  the  violent  emotions  that 
swept  him,  so  that  he  might  speak  to  this 
sweet  lady  such  words  as  fitted  place  and 
hour? 

"Yes,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  during 
which  the  storm,  for  a  moment  lulled, 
seemed  to  burst  out  in  redoubled  rage.  It 
rattled  the  window-panes,  bending  the  trees 
until  they  cracked  and  groaned  as  if  in 
pain.  "Yes,  I  have  spent  all  day  on  the 
Sound.  I  generally  do  on  Saturdays  when 
we  shut  up  the  school.  I  go  down  for  a 
long  swim  and  to  fish.  I  had  some  luck  to 
day.  I  was  coming  home — the  storm  over 
took  me  here,  and  as  I  thought  I  was  in  for 
a  good  hour  of  it,  I  lighted  a  fire  with  some 
dry  sticks  I  found  in  the  woodshed,  and  I 
meant  to  broil  my  fish.  I  was  hungry." 
He  talked  rapidly.  Was  it  to  give  himself 
or  her  confidence? 

"  I  hope  my  intrusion  has  not  spoiled 
your  appetite.  You  seem  to  have  quite  a 
little  picnic  here."  Her  voice  was  weak  and 
wavering  still.  She  was  very  pale.  She 
had  taken  off  her  hat  and  was  tossing  up 
her  hair,  coiling  and  fastening  it  with  a  dia 
mond-tipped  arrow  which  held  its  twisted 
meshes. 

"  I  take  brandy  and  crackers  with  me 
when  I  go  for  all  the  day."  He  reached 


200        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

for  the  flask  and  poured  a  small  quantity  of 
the  liquid  into  his  glass. 

"Will  you  not  moisten  your  lips  with 
this,  Mrs.  Marston?  It  will  prevent  you 
from  taking  cold,  from  feeling  faint." 

"Yes,  I  will.  Thanks."  She  made  a 
grimace.  "  I  hate  the  taste,  but  now,  there 
— ah!  it  does  give  life.  It  does  warm  one. 
I  was  cold." 

"And  your  shoes?  Will  you  not  come 
nearer  the  fire? — warm  your  damp  feet?  " 

She  leaned  down  and  with  a  deft  gesture 
resolutely  pulled  off  her  low  high-heeled 
tan  shoes.  They  creaked  on  her  open- 
worked  silk  stockings.  They  were  saturated. 
She  moved  her  toes  about,  and,  timidly 
resting  her  two  hands  on  the  seat,  offered 
them  to  the  flame. 

He  stooped,  picked  up  her  shoes,  and 
standing  them  up  on  their  slender  heels  on 
either  side  of  the  hearth,  watched  them  a 
moment  as  the  humidity  ascended  from 
them  in  a  tiny  streak  of  spiral  smoke. 

"Ah!"  he  said.  "They  were  wet  in 
deed!" 

"  Give  me  a  biscuit,  and  do  go  on  cook 
ing  your  fish.  It  looks  awfully  fresh  and 
nice.  Who  knows — I  see  no  prospect  of  a 
dinner  to-night,  and  I  have  missed  my  after 
noon  tea.  I  may  as  well  have  my  supper 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART       201 

with  you.  My  family  are  doubtless  at  this 
moment  dragging  the  Sound  for  my  dead 
body,  and  beating  the  woods  for  my  re 
mains.  Will  you  give  me  some  of  your 
fish,  Mr.  Oakes?"  She  pouted  out  her  soft 
lips  as  she  made  this  last  request  in  her  own 
enchanting  way. 

Without  replying  he  made  a  rampart  of 
fresh  fagots  upon  which  some  red  ashes  had 
already  fallen,  and  placed  the  fish  across 
them.  They  began  to  broil  and  sputter.  A 
delicious  odor  of  the  sea  seemed  to  rise 
between  the  narrow  walls. 

As  he  came  and  went,  Lola  watched  him. 
His  not  ungraceful  movements,  his  quick, 
muscular  agility  full  of  that  ardor  of  living 
which  gives  the  illusion  of  strength.  He 
wore  a  gray  flannel  shirt,  and  had  a  blue  silk 
handkerchief  knotted  carelessly  under  its 
collar.  He  wore  knickerbockers,  with  coarse 
gray  stockings.  He  had  thrown  off  his 
sailor's  cap.  His  thick  curly  golden  hair, 
still  moist  from  his  bath,  smelled  of  the 
brine.  His  hands,  sunburned  and  knotty, 
the  philosophic  hand,  had  certain  fingers 
tapering  to  artistic  shapeliness.  The  veins 
of  his  brown  throat  throbbed  with  the  exer 
tion  as  he  stepped  hither  and  thither,  pre 
paring  the  impromptu  meal. 

A  sense  of  warmth,  of  security,  of  com- 


202        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

fort,  a  sort  of  dreamy  spell  crept  over  Mrs. 
Marston's  consciousness,  and  she  continued 
to  watch  him  at  his  silent  work,  her  head 
against  his  coat,  her  feet  to  the  heat,  her 
hands  about  her  knees. 

"You  seem  to  know  how  to  cook,"  she 
said,  by-and-by.  "  My  mouth  is  watering 
already  at  the  aroma  of  your  cuisine." 

"  I  used  to  prepare  all  my  mother's 
meals,"  he  said,  "  when  I  was  young." 

She  smiled.  "  Do  you  speak  of  your 
youth  in  the  past  tense?" 

"  Life  is  not  measured  by  years  always, 
but  sometimes  by  hardships,"  he  said, 
shortly. 

"Was  yours  a  hard  youth?"  she  asked, 
softly.  He  was  certainly  interesting.  The 
thought  of  Fenno  Asch  flittered  across  her 
mind. 

"  My  mother  was  always  ill,  and  we  were 
miserably  poor." 

"  How  sad!  " 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  it  was  .  .  .  sad,"  he 
said,  with  a  slight  sarcasm  in  his  tone. 
"Your  friends  would  think  so.  They  call 
themselves  people  of  the  world,  I  believe, 
but  I  guess,  Mrs.  Marston,they  do  not  know 
much  about  it." 

"  I  dare  say  not." 

"  She  was  ill,   and  she  could  n't  eat.     I 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        203 

used  to  make  up  little  messes  for  her  when  I 
was  only  a  shaver  of  eleven." 

"  You  were  a  good  son." 

"  Oh,  I  do  not  know  about  that.  I  was 
cross  to  her  sometimes.  I  do  not  for 
get  it." 

"  And  ...  she  died?" 

"Yes,  she  died.  Poor  woman!  The  fish 
is  cooked,  Mrs.  Marston.  I  '11  bring  you 
one."  He  carried  his  little  plate  over  to 
Lola  with  her  fish,  some  biscuits,  and  a  glass 
which  he  had  now  filled  with  water — water 
with  which  he  had  provided  himself  before 
her  arrival,  drawn  at  the  well  in  a  rusty  pail. 
She  began  to  eat.  He  sat  down  on  the  floor 
and  ate  his  own  fish  as  best  he  could  in  his 
fingers,  washing  it  down  with  a  draught  from 
his  brandy  flask. 

"  I  was  very  hungry.  It  tastes  good, 
does  it  not?  "  he  said. 

"  Perfectly  delicious!  " 

The  rain  once  more  swept  the  window 
with  its  flood. 

"And  you  were  very  young  when  she 
died?" 

"Twelve.  That  left  me  quite  alone  in  the 
world.  I  believe  I  have  some  cousins  in  the 
West.  I  imagine  they  do  not  care  about 
their  poor  relatives.  Most  people  do  not. 
I  was  what  is  called  well-born.  My  mother 


204       EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

and  father  were  educated  people.  She  was 
the  daughter  of  a  clergyman.  Not  that  I 
care  if  I  had  sprung  from  tramps.  It 's  all 
the  same  to  me." 

"  Have  you  a  contempt  for  all  refine 
ments?"  asked  Mrs.  Marston,  courageously. 
She  remembered  what  she  had  heard  of  him, 
and  wondered  now  if  he  would  unfold  to  her 
his  peculiar  views.  He  was  washing  his 
hands  in  a  broken  bowl  he  had  found,  and 
wiping  them  hastily  on  his  handkerchief. 
He  came  and  stood  with  his  back  against 
the  mantel,  closer  to  where  she  sat.  At  last 
he  was  near  her;  near  that  light  breath,  those 
soft  sighs,  the  ripples  of  her  hair,  the  out 
lines  of  her  mouth,  more  guessed  at  than 
seen  in  their  dim  environment,  that  chaste 
breast!  Those  long,  thin,  white  fingers  of 
hers  were  near!  And  near  was  that  melodi 
ous  mystery  of  womanhood,  that  personality 
differing  from  all  others  he  had  touched; 
that  exquisite,  intangible  aroma  of  the 
patrician,  of  the  lady,  separating  her  from 
other  elementary  women,  making  her  a 
creature  of  another  sphere,  almost  another 
sex  from  Beth  Bush  and  Floribel  Pullen. 

"  Have  you  a  contempt  for  all  refine 
ments?  " 

"Not  for  such  as  yours."  He  must  have 
spoken  though  she  should  resent  the  per- 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        205 

sonal  note  as  insult,  and  slay  him  for  his 
boldness.  Ah,  let  her  slay  him!  What  mat 
ter — the  hour  was  here! 

"  Mine!  " 

"  I  mean,"  he  went  on,  hurriedly,  "  I  hate 
the  vulgar  upstarts  who  think  they  can 
patronize  such  as  I,  when  I  do  not  ask  their 
patronage,  or  want  it.  In  you,  one  feels  the 
real  lady.  One  sees  it.  I  mean,  the  first 
time  I  ever  saw  ...  I  beg  your  pardon!" 

But  great  ladies  are  sometimes  amused 
at  what  unsophisticated  persons  think  will 
offend  them.  His  allusions  to  upstarts 
passed  unnoticed,  for  she  could  not  have 
believed  he  meant  her  husband.  Lola  did 
not  remember  to  have  passed  so  odd  a  half- 
hour  in  her  life.  She  was  alive  to  her  finger 
tips.  Her  nerves  swung  back  into  a  reaction 
of  mental  activity,  ripe  for  impression. 

"  What  do  you  know  about  me?  " 

"  Do  you  ask  me  that  to  remind  me  of  the 
great  distance  between  us?"  he  asked,  bit 
terly. 

"  Oh,  how  can  you  think  such  things!" 
she  cried;  but  even  as  she  spoke  she 
weighed  the  distance,  and  vaguely  wondered 
what  her  husband  would  think  of  this  pro 
longed  and  extraordinary  tete-a-tete. 

"  I  dare  say  many  of  my  thoughts  would 
horrify  you,"  he  said,  gloomily.  "  What  I 


206        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

know  of  you  is  all  naturally  in  my  imagina 
tion.  I  have  a  little  of  that.  I  scribble 
verses  sometimes.  They  are  said  to  be 
fairly  good."  He  could  not  help  telling  her 
this.  He  would  have  given  his  life  to  sing 
for  her  "  To  Lola."  He  thought  it  a  fine 
thing.  His  voice  had  the  ring  of  conceit  in 
it,  which  had  made  Joe  Bush  declare  that  he 
thought  a  good  deal  of  himself. 

"You  must  send  me  some  of  your  writ 
ings,"  she  said,  somewhat  perfunctorily,  and 
with  that  sense  of  impending  weariness 
which  any  claim  upon  one's  time  or  admira 
tion  invariably  arouses,  and  which  painted 
itself  far  too  plainly  on  her  transparent  feat 
ures.  Fenno  Asch  did  not  write  poetry. 
It  must  be  admitted  that  of  the  very  few 
things  he  did  do  he  never  spoke.  Oakes 
was  disappointed.  Floribel  Pullen's  florid 
if  uncritical  enthusiasm  seemed  almost  pre 
ferable  to  this  bland  invitation. 

"  Oh,  I  am  more  interested  in  all  new 
movements,  in  watching  the  efforts  of  our 
unfortunate  human  race  to  emancipate  itself 
from  the  thralldom  of  habit,  from  the 
clutches  of  smug  monopolists,  of  vulgar 
demagogues,  than  in  composing  poems. 
When  I  leave  this  hole,  which  will  be  at  the 
end  of  the  school  session,  I  hope  to  write 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        207 

on  these  subjects."  There  was  still  the 
aggressive  key. 

Mrs.  Marston  thought,  "  I  could  have 
loved  him  when  he  spoke  of  his  dead  mother, 
now  all  charm  is  lost." 

"  Of  course,"  he  went  on,  "  my  education 
is  insufficient,  but  a  man  can  learn  a  good 
deal  from  thirty  to  fifty."  He  spoke  eagerly. 
"  This  must  be  a  fruitful  period  of  existence. 
If  I  live — I  am  not  sure  that  I  shall  think  it 
worth  while — I  may  yet  learn  something  to 
help  my  kind." 

"  These  problems  which  agitate  the  uni 
verse  are  so  profound,"  said  Mrs.  Marston, 
"  that  one  must  indeed  know  a  great  deal  to 
solve  them.  It  needs  a  man  of  genius  to 
find  the  remedy.  He  has  not  yet  come  for 
ward." 

"  If  he  did  he  would  not  be  recognized. 
They  would  stone  him  to  death." 

"  You  take  a  very  sad  view,  Mr.  Oakes." 

"  Oh,  to  be  supreme  for  a  moment!  '  cried 
the  schoolmaster. 

"  And  yet  you  would  suppress  all  suprem 
acies?"  she  ventured.  "  Is  that  logical?" 

"  They  are  admirable,  but  not  to  their  vic 
tims,"  he  answered.  "  But  I  said  for  a  mo 
ment.  Just  time  to  readjust." 

"  He  is  really  adroit,  "  she  thought. 
"  Really  clever." 


208        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

"  I  fear  we  are  all  arrogant  and  self-willed, 
and  it  was  so  intended,  Mr.  Oakes.  The 
leveling  processes  that  socialists  insist  upon 
would  cripple  individual  ambition  and  par 
alyze  the  very  progress  that  they  preach." 

"  That  is  what  the  priests  tell  us,"  he  said, 
contemptuously,  "  that  everything  bad  was 
intended." 

"  I  know  so  little  about  such  things.  I 
am,  I  know,  very  stupid." 

"  When  women  have  a  voice  in  the  con 
flict  it  will  be  heard  and  felt.  You  will  think 
more  of  these  things.  The  time  is  nigh.  I 
mean  to  espouse  the  cause  of  woman,  tram 
pled  upon  and  cheated  as  she  is.  You,  Mrs. 
Marston,  will  know  better  and  care  more 
one  of  these  days  for  the  wrongs  of  your 
sisters."  He  was  almost  eloquent.  As  her 
eyes  met  his  as  if  in  question,  he  suddenly 
smiled. 

"Why,  he  has  a  beautiful  face!"  she 
thought.  "  I  do  care,"  she  murmured.  "  I 
want  to  help  them." 

"  Do  you?"  He  continued  to  gaze  at  her, 
still  smiling,  and  for  some  unaccountable 
reason  her  eyelids  fluttered  under  his  gaze, 
and  she  blushed. 

"  She  is  one  of  those  women  whom  no 
man  could  betray — betray  or  forsake,"  he 
thought. 


EAT  NOT    THY  HEART       209 

"  You  see  I  have  strange  ideas,  Mrs.  Mar- 
ston.  I  look  upon  the  average  marriage  as 
upon  licensed  prostitution,"  said  this  very 
modern  young  gentleman. 

Then,  as  she  did  not  answer  him — "  Per 
haps  you  think  me  coarse,"  he  said.  "You 
must  forgive  me.  I  'm  not  accustomed  to 
speaking  with  ladies  of  your  .  .  .  class." 
The  last  word  came  forth  like  the  crack  of 
a  whip.  She  bent  her  head  as  if  she  had 
been  struck  with  it  across  the  cheek. 

"  I  am  no  prude,"  she  said,  haughtily. 
"  And  in  the  world  in  which  I  move,  men 
and  women  speak  freely  to  each  other.  Too 
freely,  sometimes,  perhaps." 

"  If  I  have  offended  you,  pardon  me,"  he 
repeated. 

"Go  on,"  she  said,  "  I  like  to  hear  you 
speak." 

It  was  his  turn  now  to  flush.  The  dark 
red  blood  mounted  to  his  hair  at  this  enco 
mium. 

"Yes,  I  view  the  ordinary  marriage  as  a 
crime  against  your  sex,  Mrs.  Marston. 
Man's  vanity  and  wickedness  have  invented 
that  possession  attaches  the  woman  while  it 
detaches  the  man.  It  is  a  lie.  I  '11  wager 
one  hundred  women  to  every  man  wrecks 
her  delusions  in  the  common  life;  but  being 
more  virtuous,  more  modest,  than  man,  she 


2io        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

clings  wildly  to  the  one  to  whom  she  has 
given  all,  and  he,  in  his  asinine  brutishness 
and  folly,  mistakes  a  woman's  despair  for 
her  love.  Man  has  subjugated  woman.  He 
plumes  himself  on  having  won  her." 

Did  his  words  arouse  some  far-away,  faint 
echo  in  the  young  woman's  breast?  some 
vague  remembrance  or  regret?  some  inner 
consciousness  of  the  murder  in  herself  of 
some  quivering  and  exquisite  thing?  She 
shifted  her  seat  uneasily,  and  withdrew  more 
into  the  shadow  so  that  he  could  not  see  her 
face. 

"Yes,"  he  continued,  "when  women  pro 
test,  insist,  that  they  are  happy,  they  often 
make  one  think  of  children  singing  in  the 
dark  to  prove  they  are  not  afraid  of  ghosts." 

"  Where  is  the  balm?  "  she  breathed  rather 
than  said. 

"We  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  reme 
dies,"  he  answered,  with  fatuity.  "We  de 
stroy — pull  down.  Let  the  next  generation 
rear  up  its  temples  on  the  ruins  of  the  pasc. 
Sufficient  unto  us  is  to  point  the  way,  to  clear 
away  the  debris,  dig  the  foundations  upon 
which  they  shall  build.  This  is  our  work. 
Let  them  find  theirs." 

He  threw  back  his  hair  with  one  hand, 
his  attitude,  his  gesture,  were  full  of  exalta 
tion.  Fenno  Asch  lying  in  the  hammock, 


EAT    NOT  THY  HEART        211 

her  husband  enjoying  his  placid  cigar,  read 
ing  his  evening  paper,  flashed  between  them 
with  an  incongruity  which  almost  moved 
her  to  laughter.  She  felt  as  if  they — as  if 
her  husband — required  some  apology. 

"  There  are  men — good  men — who  only 
want  to  have  the  way  shown  to  them.  I  as 
sure  you — I  assure  you — they  are  only  wait 
ing  to  be  told  what  to  do.  You,  yourself, 
if  you  had  inherited  capital,  riches  and 
power,  would  find  it  difficult — it  is  difficult! 
We  .  .  .  they  want  to  do  right." 

"  Do  you  think  the  ambulant  fashion 
models  who  surround  you — such  a  man,  for 
instance,  as  I  saw  near  you  yesterday  in  the 
train — I  do  not  know  his  name — has  he  one? 
— have  distinct  aspirations  for  relieving  the 
race,  have  any  knowledge  of  the  injustice 
that  broods  at  a  stone's  throw  from  their 
gloved  hands?  I  ask  for  information.  I 
am  one  of  the  .  .  .  the  people,  the  mass,  an 
obscure,  unknown  identity,  valueless,  yet 
groping  in  darkness,  suffering,  with  a  brain 
to  think,  and  I  sometimes  ask  myself  what 
such  people  imagine  they  were  created  for  " 

The  impertinence  of  his  speech  almost 
staggered  her,  its  shocking  lack  of  taste. 
What  right  had  he  to  cavil  at  her  friends,  to 
sound  again  that  personal  cry  which  she  had 
purposely  and  tactfully  avoided,  to  vex  her 


212       EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

with  a  question  as  difficult  to  answer  as  it 
was  insolent  to  pose? 

Yet  if  Percival  Oakes  desired  to  stand  out 
before  this  woman,  to  force  her  to  recognize 
that  he  was  not  the  village  schoolmaster  as 
Opdyke  was  the  doctor,  and  Mrs.  Fesser 
postmistress,  he  had  succeeded.  Never 
again  could  she  pass  him  by  indifferently. 
She  might  despise  or  hate  him,  but  he  had 
sprung  into  an  individuality,  real,  persistent, 
palpable.  He  had  detached  himself  from 
the  rest;  but  there  was  an  impatience  against 
him  within  her  which  must  find  vent. 

"  You  must  not  judge  people  superficially, 
Mr.  Oakes.  I  am  surprised  that  you  who 
look  at  all  subjects  so  deeply  should  do  so. 
The  favored  classes,  as  they  are  called,  those 
who  happen  to  have  good  clothes,  and  look 
to  be  amusing  themselves,  are  often  quite  as 
unhappy  as  the  rest.  They  cannot  escape 
physical  ills,  nor  treachery,  calumny,  ingrati 
tude,  which  make  us  distrustful  and  cynical, 
and  in  injuring  our  characters  inflict  upon 
us  irreparable  harm.  It  is  folly  to  imagine 
that  the  lack  of  money  is  the  only  misfortune. 
Only  that  which  hurts  what  is  best  in  us  is 
of  consequence.  Can  you,  who  are  so  intel 
ligent,  suppose  that  the  poor  have  a  mo 
nopoly  of  all  the  virtues,  and  that  the  rich, 
as  they  are  called,  lie  forever  on  roses?" 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        213 

She  left  her  bench,  and,  reaching  for  her 
shoes,  began  to  draw  them  on.  She  found 
the  process  difficult.  They  were  hard  and 
dry,  having  shrunk  in  the  heat. 

''  I  think  the  storm  is  passed.     I  must  go." 

"Will  you  permit  me  to  help  you?"  he 
said,  humbly. 

"  No,  thanks.     It  is  not  necessary." 

She  adjusted  her  hat,  and  settled  her  light 
open  jacket  with  a  jerk. 

"There,  that  will  do.  My  veil  is  a  ruin. 
I  leave  it  on  the  table  for  the  mice,  with  the 
remnant  of  our  excellent  meal." 

"  You  will  permit  me  to  walk  with  you  as 
far  as  your  gate?  I  have  no  watch,  but  it 
must  be  nearly  nine.  It  is  quite  dark." 

"  Yes,  I  have  one.  It  is  nine.  Yes,  cer 
tainly  walk  with  me  to  the  gate — see,"  she 
pushed  open  the  door  and  stepped  down 
into  the  grasses,  "the  storm  is  over,  and  the 
wind  is  so  high  it  has  nearly  dried  this  sandy 
soil  already."  The  moon  was  rising.  It 
looked  blood-red  through  the  trees. 

"  I  am  glad  it  is  drying,"  he  said,  with  a 
short  laugh.  "  I  took  refuge  here  not  to 
wet  my  feet,"  and  as  she  looked  at  him, 
surprised,  "  I  did  n't  want  to  spoil  my  shoes," 
he  said,  simply.  "They  are  the  only  decent 
ones  I  have;  they  are  new.  The  old  ones 
let  in  too  much  light." 


214        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

She  forgave  him  instantly,  everything. 

"  I  was  very  much  interested  in  what  you 
told  me  about  your  childhood,  and  your 
mother,"  she  said,  gently.  "  Some  day  per 
haps  I  shall  see  you  again,  and  you  will  tell 
me  more." 

She  could  not  ask  him  to  come  and  see  her. 
She  instinctively  felt  it  would  be  unwise. 

"  I  rarely  speak  of  her.  She  was  one  of  the 
unhappy  ones — forsaken,  embittered.  Per 
haps  I  draw  from  her  some  of  my  asperity. 
She  used  to  talk  very  hardly  of  men.  Poor 
women  have  not  a  high  opinion  of  us.  I  am 
afraid  you  have  thought  me  very  .  .  .  dis 
agreeable.  If  you  only  knew,  Mrs.  Marston, 
how  sorry  I  am  to  have  perhaps  annoyed 
you.'' 

"  No,"  she  said,  hurriedly.  "  I  under 
stand."  Her  lips  trembled.  She  felt  an 
uncontrollable  desire  to  weep.  They  reached 
the  gate.  A  star  appeared  on  its  other  side, 
hanging  midway  between  earth  and  heaven. 
It  proved  to  be  the  end  of  Mr.  Marston's 
cigar.  This  gentleman,  in  evening  dress,  with 
a  wide-brimmed  straw  hat,  loomed  on  the 
gravel.  This  hat  was  one  of  his  affectations. 
He  thought  it  had  a  country  squire's  negli 
gence.  It  hung  on  a  peg  in  the  hall,  and 
was  invariably  donned  when  very  fastidious 
and  conventional  guests  were  expected. 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        215 

To-day  we  will  say  to  his  credit  it  had  been 
put  on  because  it  came  nearest  to  his  hand. 
He  was  beginning  to  be  anxious.  She  gave 
her  fingers  lightly  to  Oakes  for  a  moment, 
parting  from  him  before  her  husband  bridged 
the  hundred  yards  that  separated  them. 

"  I  was  getting  worried,  dearest.  Where 
were  you  during  the  storm?  I  sent  the  car 
riage  around  to  Mrs.  Taft's  to  see  if  you 
were  still  there.  The  dinner  is  waiting.  It 
will  be  spoiled." 

"  I  was  there,  but  missed  the  carriage.-  I 
started  before  the  worst,  yet  too  late." 

"  Was  that  Taft  with  you?  " 

"  No,"  she  laughed.      "Guess  who?" 

"Tommy  Taft,  then." 

"  No,  Mr.  Oakes,  the  young  man  that 
teaches  the  children."  Her  words  seemed  to 
settle  him  away  again  to  a  safe  distance 
where  such  restless  spirits,  who  could  have 
no  part  among  her  household  gods,  should 
be  kept.  Nevertheless,  although  she  had 
returned  into  Philistia,  the  curious  desire  to 
weep,  which  Oakes  had  awakened  in  her, 
remained.  She  felt  as  if  upon  her  heart  lay 
a  leaden  load  of  unshed  tears. 

"Where  in  the  world  did  you  pick  him 
up?" 

Somehow  she  resented  the  expression.  She 
could  not  herself  have  explained  why. 


216        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

"  He  picked  me  up,"  she  answered, 
quickly,  "and  was  very  nice  to  me  indeed." 
She  went  on  recounting  her  adventures. 

"  What  could  you  find  to  say  to  him  dur 
ing  a  whole  hour?  He's  a  queer  cuss,  they 
tell  me,  a  young  fool.  By  the  way,  he's 
Mrs.  Bush's  beau." 

"  I  can  hardly  believe  that.  He's  so  very 
superior  to  her,"  she  said,  coldly. 

"  Superior!  " 

"And  he's  not  a  fool.  He  has  a  beautiful 
face." 

"  A  beautiful  face!  Are  you  joking,  Lola? 
Oakes  beautiful!  Ha!  ha!  ha!  That  sallow, 
round-shouldered  fellow!  The  lightning 
must  have  gotten  into  your  eyes.  Men  do  n't 
get  much  mashed  on  one  another's  good 
looks,  but  Asch,  now  I  concede  to  you  is  a 
handsome  man — un  beau  male,  as  the  French 
have  it.  But  Oakes,  ah!  ah!  " 

"  Fenno  looks  like  a  figure  in  a  coiffeur's 
window.  Those  long  eyelashes  of  his  are 
ridiculous." 

"  Has  he  a  name?  "  the  schoolmaster  had 
asked  her,  and  something  in  this  query 
seemed  to  have  lodged  its  echo  in  her  breast. 
She  remembered  now  with  a  certain  shame 
how  she  had  admired  Asch's  manly  figure. 
How  she  had  purred  over  him,  and  looked 
after  his  comforts  as  other  women  did,  out  of 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        217 

sheer  imitation.  Now,  as  she  answered  her 
husband  with  spirit,  she  could  only  remem 
ber  Fenno's  selfishness  and  the  fact  that  she 
was  getting  just  a  little  tired  of  him. 

Oakes  threaded  his  way  through  the  un 
derbrush,  after  Mrs.  Marston  left  him,  mak 
ing  a  short  cut  back  to  the  Dougherty  house. 
The  moon  illumined  it  with  its  cool  rays. 
The  drops  splashed  from  the  eaves  upon 
his  head  as  he  once  more  lifted  the  latch; 
they  seemed  a  chrism  of  calm,  a  baptism  of 
joy.  He  went  in.  The  fire  burned  low.  Its 
charred  remains  glowed  lurid.  He  jabbed 
it  with  a  fagot  and  threw  on  some  cones. 
They  sizzled  for  a  moment,  and  then  sent  up 
a  green  flame.  He  seemed  to  see  once  more 
beside  him  that  tender,  graceful  presence 
which  had  so  long  filled  empty  musings, 
lending  beauty  to  their  loneliness.  By  tem 
perament  he  adored  all  feminine  softness, 
was  susceptible  to  sensuous  charm.  The 
hour  spent  with  her  in  this  dim  hut,  in  these 
dank  woods,  seemed  now  unreal.  Yet  it  was 
one  of  those  chimeras  which  haunt  the  soul 
with  divine  ecstasy.  He  would  have  liked  to 
ring  its  raptures  to  the  skies.  "  Earth's  bells 
do  not  chime  in  or  toll  our  greatest  joys  or 
sorrows,"  he  thought.  She  seemed  to  have 
left  with  him  a  certain  peace.  His  angry 
protests  against  men  and  things  were  lulled, 


2i8        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

quenched  for  a  moment  by  her  influence. 
Perhaps  she  was  right,  he  was  unjust  and 
superficial  after  all.  He  remembered  how 
he  had  once  detested  a  man  whom  he  had 
known  to  be  his  enemy.  He  had  vowed  to 
do  him  hurt,  but  Providence  took  charge  of 
his  revenge,  for  the  man  became  blind,  and 
Oakes  in  the  chances  of  life  had  met  him 
and  been  compelled  to  cut  his  food  for  him. 
"  How  can  one  injure  a  blind  man  whose 
food  one  has  to  cut  up,"  he  thought,  with  a 
dry  laugh.  "  Our  enemies  become  blind 
and  so  disarm  us."  He  remembered  that 
the  most  dull-eyed  youth  he  had  known  at 
school,  apparently  nerveless  and  obtuse,  who 
studied  not  at  all  and  ate  enormously,  had 
killed  himself  under  peculiar,  tragic  cir 
cumstance  because  of  a  fancied  stain  upon 
his  honor.  What  plenitude  of  profound 
experience  could  teach  us  to  comprehend 
each  other,  to  fathom  motive,  to  solve  char 
acter,  to  make  allowance?  Did  the  affec 
tations  of  those  whom  he  had  called  the 
"  fashion  models  "  necessarily  betoken  fri 
volity?  Who  could  say?  Perhaps  they  did 
hide  something  better.  For  her  sake  he  was 
willing  to  believe  it  now. 

Then  he  caught  sight  of  her  veil  on  the 
table,  shriveled  from  the  wetting  it  had  got. 
He  seized  it,  burying  his  face  in  its  perfumed 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        219 

meshes.  He  opened  his  shirt  and  thrust  it 
in.  Rolling  up  his  coat  into  a  pillow,  he 
stretched  himself  out  before  the  fire.  He 
would  sleep  here.  Perhaps  she  would  visit 
him  again  in  dreams.  And,  as  he  lay  there 
waiting,  his  fingers  griped  the  bit  of  lace 
against  his  heart. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

Mr.  Marston  was  occupied.  Archie  Jr. 
had  been  ordered  out  of  the  house,  where 
his  noisy  presence  was  intolerable.  The 
servants  trod  softly.  The  dogs  were  chained 
at  the  stables  lest  their  barking  should  dis 
turb  the  master.  Lola,  in  a  white  dressing 
gown,  flitted  anxiously  from  her  apartment 
to  his,  when  he  nervously  called  her  from 
the  door  of  his  open  study.  This  study 
joined  his  bedroom.  He  had  another  down 
stairs  next  the  tabagie  which  was  dignified 
by  the  name  of  "office."  The  larger  library 
fronting  the  terraces  looked  northward. 
From  its  shelves  the  valet  Marvin  had 
selected  and  brought  up  to  his  master 
numerous  tomes.  In  these  musty  volumes 
Mr.  Marston's  nose  had  been  buried  a  great 
part  of  the  morning.  They  contained 
needed  information  as  to  American  history 
and  political  development  which  had 
scourged  his  school  days,  but  which  he  had 
long  since  forgotten.  He  was  engaged  in 
preparing  his  speech.  The  open-air  meeting 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        221 

was  to  take  place  on  the  following  Wednes 
day.  It  was  now  Monday.  There  was  no 
time  to  waste.  He  called  this  preliminary 
travail  "taking  notes,"  but  he  knew  that  his 
only  salvation  lay  in  an  elaborate  composi 
tion,  careful  transcription  to  paper,  with  a 
final  committal  to  memory.  His  memory 
was  good.  It  had  rarely  played  him 
pranks. 

"  How  will  this  do,  my  dear?  "  he  asked 
his  wife  for  the  eleventh  time,  as  she  timidly 
looked  in,  fearful  of  interfering  with  his 
industrious  frenzy. 

He  began  to  read  aloud  to  her  a  phrase 
of  his  peroration.  It  had  seemed  to  him 
thoughtful  and  even  elegant.  Somehow, 
now  that  he  listened  to  the  sound  of  his 
own  voice  the  words  appeared  flat  and  crude 
— the  ideas  nil. 

"Of  course,"  he  explained,  "sitting  here 
in  a  loose  coat  with  you,  my  love,  it  cannot 
be  impressive  as  it  will  be  delivered  from  a 
platform  with  the  excitement  of  an  audience 
upon  me  .  .  ." 

There  was  no  doubt  of  it.  It  sounded 
empty  and  withal  pretentious. 

"  Don't  you  think,  Archibald,"  she  ven 
tured,  "that,  in  view  of  the  simplicity  of 
your  hearers,  it  might  be  better  to  make  it 
a  little  more  ...  er  ...  colloquial?" 


222        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

"Colloquial?"     Mr.  Marston  frowned. 

"  Yes,  really  it  is  too  impressive,  too  fin 
ished.  It  reads  to  me  a  little  like  Racine." 

"Racine!"  Mr.  Marston  flushed,  an 
noyed.  You  don't  know  my  dear,  what  you 
are  talking  about.  Racine — poppycock! 
.  .  .  why,  these  are  the  very  kind  of  peo 
ple  who  demand  some  elaboration,  some 
polish.  Depend  upon  it,  they  appreciate 
style.  My  quarrel  with  our  local  orators  is 
that  they  have  a  tendency  to  talk  down  to 
their  audience  instead  of  raising  it  to  their 
own  level.  A  grave  mistake!" 

He  had  never  thought  of  this  before,  but 
it  sounded  well  and  would  doubtless  impress 
his  wife,  and  he  must  defend  his  diction  and 
dignity  at  any  price. 

"It  may  be  so,"  said  Lola,  wagging  her 
small  head.  "  Read  more  that  I  may  judge 
better."  She  closed  her  eyes,  with  the  acute 
anguish  which  lay  in  their  gentle  depths, 
and  prepared  to  listen.  Her  husband's 
whole  career  seemed  at  stake. 

"  Here,  perhaps  you  will  like  this  part. 
This  about  Abraham  Lincoln,  toward  the 
end,  'the  great,  the  just,  the  pure,'  where  is 
it?  I  've  lost  the  page.  The  deuce  take  it! 
Ah,  here  it  is." 

"Yes,  I  like  that.  That  is  very  well," 
said  Lola,  without  enthusiasm. 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        223 

"  Those  allusions  to  our  great  men  always 
move  a  meeting  of  this  kind  to  applause," 
said  Mr.  Marston.  "  I  suppose  a  bit  of  that 
sort  of  buncombe  is  expected." 

"  Yes,  of  course,"  said  Lola. 

"Well?" 

"  When  you  make  the  speech,  dear,  do 
you  speak  so  very,  very  fast?  I  should  think 
the  people  in  the  back  seats  would  have  dif 
ficulty  in  following." 

"  I  know  you  are  right.  I  do  get  racing. 
I  must  correct  this  one  serious  fault.  I  thank 
you  for  your  valuable  suggestion,  my  dear. 
I  will  stand  up  now  behind  the  table  and  try 
to  get  up  the  right  speed.  One  must  not 
be  ponderous." 

Racine  rankled,  but  he  made  an  effort  to 
be  patient.  She  was  a  clever  woman,  and 
if  one  wishes  to  learn  one  must  be  receptive 
and  supple  —  not  mulish.  He  placed  one 
hand  upon  the  table,  the  other  lightly  in  the 
flap  of  his  smoking-jacket  where  his  heart 
was  supposed  to  perform  its  pumping  pro 
cesses.  He  began  again  to  deliver  his 
speech.  His  slow  enunciation  of  each  syl 
lable,  heavy,  colorless,  without  inflection, 
filled  her  with  dismay.  She  found  she 
could  not  follow  the  subject,  so  drowsy 
did  her  senses  grow  in  the  monotony  of  his 
tones. 


224        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

"  I  think  you  might,  perhaps,  speak  a  wee 
bit  more  rapidly  than  that." 

He  glared.  "  Don't  you  comprehend  — 
I  'm  only  practicing  to  cure  myself  of  over 
much  speed.  Really,  Lola,  you  might  help 
me  instead  of  saying  discouraging  things  to 
me." 

"  You  tell  me  you  have  spoken  at  dinners. 
How  did  you  get  on  then,  dear?  " 

"  I  'm  not  an  orator.  I  know  it.  I  have 
only  got  on  my  legs  two  or  three  times  in 
my  life.  I  cut  it  very  short.  I  got  through. 
I  was  among  friends." 

"  It  must  be  just  too  awful  not  to  ...  get 
through,"  said  Mrs.  Marston. 

"  Nonsense,  I  don't  mean  to  make  a  fiasco 
on  Wednesday.  A  delegation  is  coming 
over  from  Flushing;  you  may  depend  upon 
it  I  shall  not  make  an  ass  of  myself  if  I  can 
help  it." 

Mrs.  Marston  said  she  felt  confident  that 
he  would  not. 

"  Fancy,"  she  said,  reflectively,  "  your 
making  an  ass  of  yourself  !  "  Then,  after  a 
pause:  "  Suppose  you  suddenly  forgot  the 
speech  when  you  had  learned  it!  "  A  new 
terror  thrilled  her. 

"  I  shall  take  my  notes  along." 

"Ah!" 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        225 

"  If  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst  I  can 
read  from  them." 

"  I  don't  think  that  would  be  nice  at  all." 
She  shook  her  head  again  decidedly. 

"  I  don't  know  about  it 's  not  being  nice, 
my  dear,  but  such  things  have  been  done. 
Vou  seem  to  be  a  regular  alarmist  to-day.  I 
declare  you  quite  make  me  nervous.  I  expect 
to  throw  the  thing  off  without  a  moment's 
hesitancy.  I  have  a  very  fair  memory.  I 
think  when  one  has  this  gift  it  is  better  not 
to  speak  impromptu.  One  may  make  a  show 
of  one's  self  and  spoil  everything." 

She  agreed  with  him  that  it  would  indeed 
be  dreadful  to  make  a  show  of  one's  self. 

Turning  over  the  pages  of  his  manuscript 
he  found  a  tit-bit,  something  local  and  hu 
morous,  at  which  he  laughed  himself,  a  hit 
of  which  he  was  immensely  proud,  and 
which  he  read  to  her. 

"That'll  fetch  them!" 

His  wife,  however,  to  his  chagrin,  did  not 
laugh  at  all.  She  looked  quite  careworn, 
almost  haggard.  It  was  evident  she  had 
missed  his  point. 

"  Don't  you  think  that  funny?  " 

"Well,  yes,  it  is  rather  funny,"  she  said, 
after  a  moment's  hesitancy. 

The  announcement  of  the  twelve  o'clock 


226        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

breakfast  brought  the  seance  to  a  temporary 
conclusion. 

When  the  day  came,  the  Marston  family — 
Mr.  Marston  in  a  long  frock  coat  with  a 
carnation  in  his  button-hole,  Lola  ethereal 
in  gray  mull,  little  Archie  in  duck  trousers 
and  a  sailor  collar — got  into  the  phaeton. 
Fenno  Asch  drove  May  Plunkett  in  a  Til 
bury,  Mrs.  Ayrault  and  de  Beaumont  came 
bumping  behind  in  a  village  cart.  They 
thought  it  an  enormous  frolic.  Mrs.  Marston 
had  explained  to  the  Count  the  necessity  of 
gentlemen  in  the  United  States  interesting 
themselves  in  politics,  of  establishing  terms 
of  friendliness  and  sympathy  with  their 
country  neighbors,  and  of  playing  the  gentil- 
homme  campagnard  with  urbanity  and  tact. 
The  Count  screwed  in  his  monocle,  waved 
one  arm  in  the  ether,  and  said  he  "  seized 
the  situation."  It  was  just  the  same  in 
France,  at  St.  Quentin,  near  which  was  his 
mother's  estate.  He  often  addressed  the 
people  from  the  balcony,  and  then  invited 
them  in  to  supper,  since  the  Republic  had 
leveled  all  classes.  One  must  march  with  the 
times,  make  concessions.  One's  heart  might 
be  with  the  king,  but  reason  must  be  with 
the  nation.  He  told  his  mother  this,  but  it 
was  difficult.  She  was  a  little  arrierde.  She 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        227 

was  a  Rohan,  an  obstinate  royalist.  He 
himself  felt  that  he  had  a  sacred  duty  to 
perform  to  the  Republic.  Mrs.  Ayrault, 
who  had  heard  all  this  before,  gave  a  little 
grin  behind  her  fan. 

"  The  bird  that  flew  out  of  the  ark  was 
about  as  liberal  as  you  are,"  she  said,  while 
she  briskly  tucked  in  her  shapely  limbs,  and 
the  Count's  lank  ones  under  the  light  lap- 
robe.  "  Don't  talk  rot." 

"  You  are  ravtssante,"  said  the  Count, 
leaning  back  in  rapture. 

May  Plunkett,  skillfully  driven  by  her 
handsome  escort,  was  very  silent.  She  had  a 
problem  to  solve.  Should  she  marry  Fenno 
Asch,  who  had  never  offered  himself  to 
her,  and  never  meant  to.  So  many  had! — 
Or  should  she  wed  the  St.  Louis  Colonel? 
The  latter  had  offered.  Of  this  there  could 
be  no  shadow  of  doubt.  He  had  offered 
himself  and  many  other  things.  She 
was  weighing  the  pros  and  cons.  Wom 
anlike,  she  began  with  the  cons.  As  she 
laid  them  down  she  qualified  them: 

CONS. 

Over  fifty — not  much  consequence. 
Widower — no  consequence. 
Two  daughters — married,  therefore  out  of 
the  way. 


228        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

Has  attacks  of  gout — pretty  bad. 

Gets  red  in  the  face  and  blusters — un 
pleasant. 

Not  well-born — unfortunate. 

Purse-proud — regrettable. 

Says  gauche  and  stupid  things — horrible. 

No  appreciation  of  art  or  literature,  little 
education — might  be  improved. 

PROS. 

Good-looking,  manly — cheering  attributes. 

Twenty  millions — a  mere  figure  to  a  girl 
accustomed  to  luxury,  but,  her  money  being 
yet  in  anticipation,  comfortable. 

Two  palaces  already  built,  will  build  any 
number  more,  anywhere,  at  a  moment's  no 
tice;  fine  horses,  coaches,  yachts  already — 
amusing. 

Not  dissipated — a  good  thing  always,  oT 
course. 

Very  much  in  love  with  her — was  this  a 
pro  or  a  con? — she  was  inclined  to  think 
the  latter,  as,  so  far,  she  found  his  love  ex 
tremely  disagreeable. 

Had  distinguished  himself  in  the  war — 
picturesque. 

When  they  reached  the  grounds  she  was 
just  summing  up  her  charges  to  the  jury,  her 
friends. 

In  spite   of  the  democratic  tendencies  of 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        229 

the  day,  front  seats  had  been  reserved  for 
the  Marston  party.  Percival  Oakes,  who 
was  one  of  the  ushers,  took  off  his  hat 
gravely  to  Mrs.  Marston,  and  conducted  her 
to  her  place.  The  misty  folds  of  her  gown 
brushed  him  as  she  nodded  and  spoke  a 
word.  She  installed  herself  between  Archie 
Jr.,  who  had  his  papa's  overcoat  on  his  arm 
(Mr.  Marston  was  to  accompany  the  delega 
tion  back  to  Flushing,  where  a  reception 
was  to  be  held — he  might  not  get  home  un 
til  late),  and  Fenno  Asch.  Percival  Oakes, 
as  he  designated  the  seats  to  the  ladies, 
looked  at  him. 

The  day  was  brilliant.  Over  their  heads 
floated  a  snow-white  cloud,  shaped  like  a 
shield.  It  might  have  been  the  sacred  An- 
cile,  fixed  there  triumphant  to  guard  them 
from  all  ills.  The  rest  of  heaven  was  of  a 
vivid  blue,  burnished,  blinding.  Lola,  blink 
ing,  raised  her  gray  parasol.  Behind  her 
sat  Joe  Bush,  Beth  and  Dottie.  Beth,  re 
splendent  in  a  new  foulard,  brave  with  its 
grape-vine  pattern;  Dottie,  starched  in  a 
fresh  print,  the  gold  locket  and  chain  fast 
ened  about  her  little  throat.  Beth  followed 
Mrs.  Marston's  example,  and  raised  her  sun 
shade — the  one  of  which  she  was  so  proud. 
She  noticed  that  her  mistress's  had  no  lace 
upon  it.  Her  eyes  fastened  themselves  upon 


230        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

every  detail  of  Mrs.  Marston's,  Mrs. 
Ayrault's,  and  Miss  Plunkett's  toilettes.  If 
their  hats  were  in  the  latest  fashion  then  had 
her  Third  Avenue  milliner  basely  deceived 
and  cheated  her.  The  brims  were  narrower 
than  hers.  The  woman's  perfidy  filled  Beth's 
soul.  The  sun  was  darkened  to  her.  She 
noticed  with  wonder  that  the  tiny  locks  in 
Miss  Plunkett's  neck  were  out  of  curl  and  lay 
limp  upon  a  chiffon  fichu  which  was  a  trifle 
rumpled,  while  the  sequins  upon  Mrs. 
Ayrault's  yellow  bodice  were  somewhat  tar 
nished;  yet  the  effect  the  three  women  pro 
duced  among  the  crowd  of  gaping  villagers 
was  startling.  They  distanced  everybody 
by  the  mere  way  they  held  their  heads  and 
hands,  spoke  to  each  other  in  that  mutual 
camaraderie  with  its  masonry  of  cabalistic 
signals  so  easy  to  strive  for,  so  hard  to  ac 
quire. 

Next  to  the  Bush  family  sat  the  Pullens. 
Floribel,  charming  in  her  simple  cloth  frock 
with  its  scarlet  necktie,  and  Mrs.  Pullen  in 
black  bombazine,  crisp  crape  veil,  and  neat 
black  gloves.  Why  she  should  thus  appear 
always  in  deep  mourning,  was  one  of  the  un 
answered  questions  of  the  neighborhood, 
for  her  husband  had  died  thirty  years  before, 
and  her  son  was  living.  On  official  occa 
sions  Floribel  always  decked  her  mother  in 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        231 

this  careful  livery  of  woe.  She  was  a  gaunt, 
toothless  crone,  with  a  high-bumped  fore 
head  and  hatchet  cheeks,  but  so  dressed  she 
looked  quite  lady-like  and  imposing.  Prob 
ably  Floribel  thought  that  when  a  woman 
has  passed  the  age  of  love-making  such  ha 
biliments  are  suitable  and  safe. 

Pierre  Rose,  who  had  come  across  the 
meadows  with  some  of  the  maids  to  hear  the 
master  speak,  stared  fixedly  at  Miss  Pullen. 
She  did  not  return  his  amorous  oglings, 
but  they  did  not  appear  to  inspire  her 
with  resentment.  All  the  annoyance  they 
invoked  was  plainly  painted  upon  the  feat 
ures  of  the  gentleman  who  was  wedged  be 
tween  her  and  Dottie  Bush.  One  of  the 
neighbors  had  once  called  him  the  "  black- 
browed  beetle."  The  description  suited  him 
passably.  He  was  insectivorous  in  size  and 
color,  and  looked  distinctly  mischievous. 

"If  you 're  flirting  with  that  Frenchman, 
Florrie,  it  's  time  I  quit,"  he  whispered  in 
her  ear. 

"What  Frenchman,  Mr.  Pear?  "  said  Flor 
rie,  sweetly,  the  embodiment  of  unjustly 
accused  virginity. 

"  I  ain't  as  blind  as  I  may  look,"  went  on 
the  lover;  "if  there  's  more  than  one  French 
man  in  this  assembly  I  guess  I  'd  know  it." 

"Well,    there    is    then    more    than    one 


232        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

Frenchman,  so  there!  I  declare  I  believe 
you  're  jealous,"  she  said,  shrugging  her 
shoulders  and  smiling. 

"Jealous?  Jealous  of  a  cook?  When 
I  've  sunk  as  low  as  that,  Miss  Pullen,  I  '11 
seek  another  friend.  .  .  ." 

"  Well  now,  Mr.  Pear,  you  are  mistaken 
for  once.  There  is  more  than  one  French 
man  here.  That  gentleman  in  front  with 
Mrs.  Marston  is  a  French  gentleman,  and 
he  's  a  Count,  too!  " 

"  You  '11  be  making  eyes  at  him  next, 
Florrie.  I  guess  it  would  just  about  suit 
your  fancy  to  be  a  Countess." 

"  I  would  n't  marry  a  Papist  not  for  any 
title,"  said  Miss  Pullen,  tossing  her  head. 

"You  'd  have  to  go  to  confession  and  tell 
all  your  sins.  That  would  n't  suit  you,  eh?  " 
He  bent  his  head  forward  eager  to  catch  her 
answer. 

"  That  is  against  Bible  injunction  accord 
ing  to  me,"  said  Florrie.  "You  oughtn't 
to  tell  your  secrets.  The  Scripture  says 
'  and  thy  left  hand  shall  not  know  what  thy 
right  hand  doeth.'  Is  n't  that  right,  ma?  " 

Mrs.  Pullen  nodded  her  head  with  a  fee 
ble  gurgle  of  approbation. 

"Yes,  daughter,  that 's  so,"  she  said. 

"Well,  you're  a  clever  minx,  anyway," 
said  Mr.  Pear,  somewhat  mollified  by  this 


EAT  NOT    THY  HEART       233 

peculiar  interpretation  of  gospel  truth. 
There  's  no  catching  you,  is  there — eh, 
Flcrrie?" 

But  the  Count  was  not  glancing  toward 
Floribel;  he  was  seeking,  as  ever,  the  sorcery 
which  lay  for  him  in  Arden  Ayrault's  velvet 
eyes. 

By-and-by  Floribel's  city  lover,  seeing 
Rose's  maneuvers  to  attract  her  attention, 
came  back  to  the  attack. 

"  I  do  n't  care  if  it 's  a  French  Count  or 
cook,  or  that  athlete  out  of  the  circus  you 
were  talking  with.  Yes,  I  caught  you,  last 
spring.  I  won't  stand  it.  If  you  carry  on, 
I  '11  quit,"  he  repeated,  with  an  angry  scowl 
at  Pierre. 

"  Pshaw!  That  athlete!  Why,  I  was  just 
showing  him  our  view  over  the  fence.  A 
nice  young  man.  You  call  that  talking,  Mr. 
Pear?"  She  stifled  a  yawn.  "I  declare 
I  'm  getting  sleepy." 

The  jealousy  of  the  man  one  loves  is 
delicious,  of  the  man  one  tolerates,  fatiguing. 
Miss  Pullen  liked  pretty  presents,  but  she 
liked  agreeable  words  even  better.  She  was 
pleasure-loving.  She  was  getting  very  tired 
of  her  adorer.  She  thought  with  contempt 
that  he  was  willing  to  hurt,  and  yet  afraid  to 
strike. 

The  brass  band  tuned  its  instruments,  and 


234       EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

broke  into  an  overture.  A  beneficent  inter 
lude.  Mrs.  Marston  turned  and  spoke  to 
the  Bushes. 

"I  haven't  seen  you  for  a  long  time, 
Mrs.  Bush." 

11  You  don't  come  up  much  to  the  cottage, 
Mrs.  Marston."  Her  voice  had  a  reproach 
in  it  which  never  failed  to  arouse  latent  an 
tagonism  in  Lola's  breast. 

"  I  will  come  in  a  day  or  two.  I  've  been 
engaged  with  guests  and  other  things." 
Lola  was  determined  to  be  gracious. 

"  I  have  got  some  new  pullets  to  show 
you,  Mrs.  Marston."  She  would  not  say 
ma'am,  as  she  would  have  said  to  Mrs. 
Opdyke;  she  feared  it  might  be  servile.  She 
went  on:  "And  Wilhelmina  has  a  heifer, 
dropped  last  night." 

Lola  shook  hands  with  Floribel,  whom  she 
liked.  She  also  addressed  the  girl's  mother. 
"  How  are  you,  Mrs.  Pullen?  " 

"Well,  ma'am,  I've  got  the  plumbago 
and  the  bronkity  so  my  tubes  is  some  par 
alyzed,  but  I  'm  pretty  fair,  I  thank  you." 

She  did  not  care  for  the  stories  against 
the  girl.  She  thought  they  were  probably 
mere  gossip.  Her  manners  were  certainly 
modest,  and  she  was  always  dressed  so 
neatly. 

"You  look  splendid,  Mrs.  Marston.     Just 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        235 

splendid.  So  fat  and  beautiful.  You  are 
not  the  fat  kind,  but  you  look  real  plump  for 
you.  And  Master  Archie!  Is  n't  he  too 
cute  for  anything!  How  are  you,  sir? 
Shake  hands.  You  have  n't  forgotten  Pep 
per,  have  you?  Come  in  and  see  him  some 
day.  Ma  's  taught  him  some  new  tricks." 

Archie  gave  Miss  Pullen  his  hand  politely, 
and  asked  some  questions  about  her  terrier, 
which  he  had  sometimes  stopped  to  frolic 
with. 

Floribel  spoke  of  Marston  Terrace  and  its 
loveliness.  "  I  was  over  the  other  day,"  she 
said.  "  We  are  so  proud  to  have  the  place 
here  so  near  us.  It 's  a  regular  show  place 
for  all  our  visitors.  We  are  proud  of  hav 
ing  you  for  a  neighbor." 

Beth,  whose  secret  admiration  for  Mrs. 
Marston  was  far  more  profound  and  complex, 
marveled  at  Floribel's  easy  exposition  of  her 
sentiments. 

Floribel's  blood  was  not  curdled.  It  was 
a  healthy  fluid,  from  which  the  processes  of 
circulation  eliminated  acids.  It  assimilated 
neither  envy  nor  malice. 

"Yes,  now  do  come  and  see  Pepper,  little 
dear!  "  Mrs.  Pullen  was  saying  to  Archie,  in 
her  husky  whisper.  She  was  one  of  those 
well-trained  American  mothers  who  invaria 
bly  follow  their  daughters'  initiative.  She 


236        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

had  never  been  known  since  Floribel's  birth 
to  disagree  with  her  or  to  speak  first. 

"  I  was  going  away  this  week,"  continued 
Floribel,  "  but  I  would  n't  miss  Mr.  Mars- 
ton's  speech,  no,  not  for  anything.  We  all 
came  to  hear  him.  I  told  my  friend  in  At 
lantic  City  she  'd  have  to  wait." 

Lola  explained  that  her  husband  was  not 
an  orator,  and  had  only  come  to  please  his 
party,  at  which  Floribel  shook  her  head  in 
credulously.  She  was  sure  Mr.  Marston 
must  be  a  grand  speaker. 

With  a  sudden  bray  the  band  stopped.  A 
hush  fell.  The  first  speaker  was  introduced. 
He  was  a  man  rough  in  dress,  unshaven, 
awkward,  ungrammatical,  yet  somehow  he 
held  attention.  The  child  in  the  second  row 
forgot  to  fret,  the  old  soldier  who  took  the 
tickets,  to  cough  and  spit,  the  belated  school 
girls  crouching  on  the  platform  steps,  to 
titter.  He  was  plausible,  lucid,  intelligible, 
above  all  fluent.  Fluency  is  a  moral  not  an 
intellectual  attribute.  The  higher  flights  of 
eloquence  spring  more  from  character  than 
from  culture.  Calm,  composed,  master  of 
his  audience,  and  of  himself,  he  seemed  to 
enjoy  his  own  power.  He  sat  down  after 
fifteen  minutes,  which  had  seemed  but  five, 
amid  clapping  of  hands  and  some  shouts  of 
"  Good,  good!  " 


EAT    NOT  THY  HEART        237 

Another  speaker  followed,  more  preten 
tious,  better  dressed,  in  black  broadcloth, 
with  a  white  cravat;  a  state  legislator.  He 
had  the  paunch  and  profile  of  a  papal  pre 
late  with  an  unctiousness  which  he  had  in 
fact  acquired  while  a  student  in  a  college 
dominated  by  the  Order  of  Jesus.  He,  too, 
was  a  success.  Easy,  urbane,  by  turns 
earnest  or  satirical,  he  possessed  imagination 
and  dramatic  quality.  He  held  his  hearers. 
He  retired  amid  a  burst  of  cheers.  It  was 
then  that  Mr.  Marston  got  upon  his  feet. 

He  began.  Lola  noticed  that  his  skin  was 
of  a  greenish  hue,  his  lips  parched,  his  eyes 
restless  and  vacant.  His  hair  seemed  to 
have  arisen  about  his  head  like  a  halo  of 
rays;  perhaps  it  was  the  heat.  It  looked 
singular.  She  made  a  sign  to  him  with  her 
hand  to  smooth  it  down.  He  did  not  seem 
to  understand  her,  and  stopped  short  in  his 
speech,  looking  about  helplessly.  There  was 
a  pause.  He  cleared  his  throat  and  began 
again.  He  went  on  fairly  well  for  five  min 
utes  more  or  less.  The  Bible's  thousand 
years  came  to  Lola's  mind.  What  was  time? 
A  mere  unit  of  misery.  Twisting  on  her 
hard  plank,  she  felt  it  so.  Then — then — 
there  came  a  pause  indeed — a  pause  long, 
awful,  blood-curdling.  From  green  his  com 
plexion  seemed  to  become  leaden — livid. 


238       EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

His  eyes  glazed  in  their  sockets.  The  old 
soldier  hawked  and  snorted.  The  girls  gig 
gled  and  choked.  The  baby  began  to  scream. 
Mr.  Marston  looked  toward  them  all  in  turns 
and  smiled — such  a  smile!  Lola  had  never 
seen  it  on  any  other  human  being's  counte 
nance,  much  less  on  that  of  the  husband 
whom  she  loved.  It  might  be  that  of  a  lost 
spirit  just  consigned  to  eternal  doom.  He 
was  feeling  for  his  notes!  In  his  coat,  his 
vest,  his  trousers,  everywhere,  anywhere! 
His  notes!  The  worst  had  befallen  him, 
the  horrible  contingency.  His  mind  was  a 
blank.  The  speech  had  vanished,  but  alas! 
not  only  from  his  memory,  but  from  his 
pockets!  They  were  empty!  The  cursed, 
cursed  things  met  him  with  vacuum.  He 
gasped,  "  Overcoat!  " 

It  was  then  that  Oakes  rose  to  the  occa 
sion;  in  pity  for  the  woman  he  revered,  he 
sprang  to  the  assistance  of  the  man  he  de 
spised.  He  understood.  In  an  instant  he 
had  grasped  the  overcoat  from  Archie's 
trembling  ringers,  wrested  the  notes  from 
their  hiding-place,  and  handed  them  to  Mr. 
Marston.  It  is  positive  that  there  are  times 
when  we  could  kiss  the  garments  of  those 
whose  lack  of  humor  at  other  moments  irri 
tates.  With  gratitude  ineffable  Lola  realized 
that  Oakes  had  seized  the  tragedy  of  the 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        239 

situation,  not  its  absurdity.  His  jaws  might 
have  been  made  of  iron,  his  forehead  of 
steel;  not  a  line,  not  a  vestige  of  ridicule 
traversed  the  mask  of  his  imperturbable 
seriousness.  He  had  saved  her  husband. 
His  action  imposed  upon  the  audience.  The 
glance  with  which  she  rewarded  him  was 
one  full  of  such  poignant  sweetness  that  he 
almost  died,  inundated  with  the  happiness  it 
brought  to  him. 

Marvin,  the  idiot,  had  put  the  papers  in 
the  overcoat  instead  of  in  the  vest  as  directed. 
Mr.  Marston  had  time  to  feel  that  dismissal 
would  be  too  good  for  his  valet,  that  death 
by  torture  could  hardly  atone.  He  wished 
the  crafty  Torquemada  was  still  living  to  in 
vent  a  new  mode  of  lingering  execution. 
Fumbling,  faint,  he  fingered  the  pages, — faint 
but  rescued! 

What  did  it  matter  that  the  people  were 
beginning  to  chatter,  to  scrape  their  feet, 
that  a  voice,  quickly  quelled  but  plainly 
audible,  cried  out,  "  He  ain't  no  good.  Mar 
ston  ain't  no  good  "  ?  Let  his  enemies  do 
their  worst — he  had  .  .  .  the  notes! 

He  went  on,  faster,  and  faster,  and  faster, 
showering  the  platitudes  he  had  strung  to 
gether  until  they  seemed  to  Lola  a  mere 
medley  of  incoherent  words.  He  skipped 
the  witty  sally.  He  was  in  no  mood  for 


240        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

joking.  With  the  final  invocation  to  Lin 
coln,  which  he  delivered  so  inaudibly  that  it 
missed  its  mark,  he  sat  down,  while  the  band 
played  "  Hail  to  the  Chief."  There  was  a 
round  of  brief  but  palpably  forced  applause. 
There  was  more  speaking  and  more  music. 
To  Lola  all  was  over.  The  sting  of  her  hus 
band's  failure  brought  cold  drops  of  moisture 
to  her  brow,  and  she  shivered,  though  not 
with  cold.  To  see  the  nullity  of  one  we  re 
spect,  even  in  so  slight  a  test,  is  a  form  of 
suffering  Dante  omitted  from  his  purgatorial 
cleansings.  Children  who  first  discover  the 
faults  of  parents,  their  makeshifts,  or  incom 
petence,  are  in  this  sad  plight.  The  Count, 
however,  was  profuse  in  his  commendations 
of  Mr.  Marston's  speech.  It  is  true  he  had 
not  heard  a  word  of  it,  but  with  his  native 
gallantry  and  kindness  he  saw  his  hostess 
was  uncomfortable,  and  came  to  her  rescue 
with  such  amends  as  he  could  make.  He 
even  told  her  that  her  husband  was  a  second 
Mirabeau. 

"  Look  here,"  Mrs.  Ayrault  whispered  to 
him,  "  don't  make  a  donkey  of  yourself. 
It  was  horrible,  and  she  knows  it.  Poor 
dear!  For  God's  sake,  let  her  alone." 

Fenno  Asch  had  been  so  bored  that  a  pall 
of  deep  dejection  enveloped  him. 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        241 

Why  in  the  devil's  name  should  Marston 
desire  to  do  such  things?  Why  men  should 
choose  to  assume  these  absurd  responsibilities 
he  could  not  for  the  life  of  him  imagine.  Ten 
minutes  of  that  nasty,  ill-smelling  crowd  had 
been  quite  enough  for  him.  Even  Miss 
Plunkett's  taut  figure,  as  the  young  lady 
sprang  to  her  place  by  his  side,  was  refracted 
upon  a  jaundiced  retina.  She  represented  an 
unwholesome  nuptial  temptation,  which  he 
attributed  to  the  bourgeois  atmosphere  just 
inhaled.  He  was  so  rude  to  her  on  the  way 
home  that  the  St.  Louis  Colonel's  boom 
again  fluctuated  upward.  May  told  herself 
that  if  the  Colonel  was  rough  with  others  he 
was  always  a  lamb  with  her.  She  decided 
that  Fenno  was  a  brute.  The  valiant  Col 
onel's  chances  received  an  impetus  which 
bowled  hopefully  with  every  revolution  of 
the  Tilbury's  wheel.  A  man  is  less  repul 
sive  when  he  has  declared  himself. 

Oakes,  plodding  home  through  the  fields, 
could  not  enjoy  the  discomfiture  of  him 
whom  he  so  cordially  disliked.  Its  cost  had 
been  too  great.  He  had  seen  what  she  en 
dured.  It  was  the  blind  man  over  again. 
The  impotence,  the  sarcasm  of  fate  which 
pursued  all  his  hates.  But  she  had  leaned 
to  him  in  gratitude,  and  he  had  served  her ! 
This  seemed  enough! 


242        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

A  few  days  later  the  schoolmaster  left 
Paradise.  He  went  into  the  great  city  with 
his  small  wardrobe  and  his  box  of  books. 
He  went  and  was  swallowed  up.  Its  dark 
waves  closed  over  him,  leaving  no  sign. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

Beth  had  bowed  to  Percival  Oakes  across 
the  knot  of  Mrs.  Marston's  pale  brown  hair, 
with  a  smile  in  which  there  lurked  an  invita 
tion.  His  inscrutable  regard  crossed  hers 
coldly  like  the  glint  from  some  steel  weapon. 
He  returned  her  salutation,  but  gave  no 
heed  to  its  summons. 

Her  anger  had  cooled.  She  missed  him. 
She  was  not  of  a  caliber  calculated  to  cap 
tivate  her  neighbors.  They  had  viewed  her 
arrival  with  that  measure  of  interest  which 
narrow  communities  evince  toward  strangers. 
Too  self-engrossed  to  be  sympathetic,  her 
value  to  them  had  soon  been  gauged.  She 
took  but  scant  interest  in  their  affairs,  and 
her  longing  to  be  above  them,  even  in  its 
meager  achievement,  was,  while  not  fully 
understood,  yet  obscurely  guessed. 

"  She  's  awful  proud,"  somebody  had  said 
of  her. 

"She's  that  stuck  up  she  thinks  herself 
bigger  'n  Mrs.  Marston,  and  puts  on  a  sight 
more  airs." 

243 


244        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

"Mrs.  Marston  don't  put  on  airs.  She's 
a  real  lady,  but  Miss  Bush,  she  seems  afeard 
people  will  trespass  on  her." 

So  ran  the  village  tattle. 

Yes,  she  missed  him.  She  had  in  vain 
waited  for  a  call — a  note — some  sign — none 
came.  Then,  biting  her  lips  with  vexation, 
she  had  herself  written  a  short,  friendly  line 
— not  an  apology — asking  him  to  tea.  He 
declined  with  an  excuse  which  was  evidently 
an  invention,  that  false  change  which  de 
ceives  nobody.  Then  it  was  that  she  fully 
realized  all  she  had  lost.  Even  his  egotism 
had  found  a  niche  in  her  life.  Few  in  their 
wish  to  please  but  are  base  enough  to  pan 
der  to  the  egotist,  and  talk  to  him  about 
himself.  Beth  proved  no  exception;  but 
Oakes's  egotism  was  of  a  kind  which 
charmed  her  without  wearying.  So  she  at 
least  had  some  excuse.  His  advanced  views 
and  militant  humor  had  become  like  wine  to 
her,  a  form  of  dissipation  resembling  the 
violent  pleasures  of  alcohol.  She  could  not 
forego  it  without  pain.  The  dull  pain  of  a  dull 
existence,  which  felt  that  above  it,  just  above 
it,  so  near  that  she  could  touch  it  with  her 
hand,  lay  another  life,  mysterious,  dazzling, 
which  through  some  trick  of  a  lost  birthright 
passed  her  by.  It  was  the  sights  and  sounds 
from  the  great  house  which  kept  her  dis- 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        245 

satisfied  and  unhappy.  She  sometimes 
wished  it  and  its  occupants  could  be  shut  out 
of  her  ken  forever,  wished  it  with  a  persist 
ence  growing  to  mania.  Lack  of  air  and 
exercise,  too  frequent  libations  of  strong 
tea,  absence  of  all  mental  occupations,  ag 
gravated  these  unhealthy  broodings.  Since 
Oakes  came  no  more  she  rarely  went  out; 
she  had  no  love  of  nature,  and  long  walks 
always  fatigued  her  more  than  her  household 
work.  She  missed  the  mental  friction  of 
his  visits.  Then  she  learned  that  he  had 
left  Paradise. 

Upon  her  lay  the  full  weight  of  her  sacri 
fice.  She  determined  to  cease  complaining, 
to  be  a  good  wife,  a  good  mother,  to  close 
her  ears  to  the  solicitations  of  folly,  to  be  a 
happy  and  helpful  woman.  Somehow  the 
endeavor,  praiseworthy  in  itself,  was  a  trifle 
ponderous,  lacked  lightness.  Elizabeth,  in 
fact,  was  not  elastic. 

Joe,  after  the  manner  of  husbands,  seemed 
not  to  remark  the  change  in  her,  or,  if  he  did, 
scarcely  to  be  grateful.  He  had  often  been 
fain  to  escape  from  her  tongue.  He  found 
himself  now  somewhat  oppressed  by  her 
silences.  There  are  silences  harder  to  bear 
than  words.  Their  sting  lies  in  the  fact  that 
they  must  be  ignored,  whereas  open  reproach 
may  be  met  with  scorn.  But  Elizabeth  was 


246       EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

doing  her  best.  In  moments  of  impatience 
she  now  held  her  peace.  She  went  about 
her  work  as  the  animals  do,  with  a  sort  of 
blind  obedience  to  rule.  In  the  lairs  of 
caves  and  of  woods,  in  the  depths  of  seas, 
in  the  nests  of  singing  birds,  in  the  holes  of 
insects,  there  is  ever  going  on  this  watchful 
wakefulness,  this  sleepless  industry,  this  de 
votional  renouncement.  The  beasts  teach 
us  something  better  than  their  brutal  instincts 
of  pleasure,  other  things  besides  the  uses  of 
their  self-love  and  craftiness.  They  preach 
to  us  law  and  order.  The  universe  is  a  great 
reformatory.  In  it  the  inexorable  doctrines 
of  self-sacrifice  are  taught.  Through  all  the 
torment  of  desire,  through  all  the  raging 
wish  to  grow,  to  widen,  and  to  shine,  an  iron 
hand  bears  down,  and  the  preservation  of  the 
species  is  insured.  Secret  of  secrets  at 
which  mute  man  looks  up,  marveling  and 
frightened.  Deep  down  within  Beth's  heart 
there  lay  that  cryptic  wonder,  that  occult 
"why?"  If  Oakes  had  not  forsaken  her,  if 
she  could  have  rallied  from  a  desertion  which 
she  attributed  to  his  profound  contempt,  her 
task  would  have  seemed  easier.  His  friend 
ship,  much  as  he  was  disliked  in  Paradise, 
had  cast  a  prestige  over  her,  for  if  he  was 
disliked  he  was  admired.  She  had  reveled 
in  his  society,  proud  to  have  him  seen  beside 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        247 

her,  liking  to  have  the  people  know  he  was 
her  friend.  How  she  envied  Floribel,  the 
insouciance,  which  made  her  seem  as  happy 
in  the  fellowship  of  that  scaramouch,  that 
whining  ferret,  her  dark  lover,  as  in  that  of  a 
capricious  and  yellow-haired  young  poet. 
Floribel  possessed  the  temperament  which  is 
uninfluenced  by  surrounding,  which  creates 
its  own  atmosphere.  Beth's  laboratory  knew 
no  such  alchemy.  She  belonged  to  that  sis 
terhood  dependent  on  environment.  A  word 
could  plunge  her  into  heaven  or  scourge  her 
to  the  pit.  When  such  is  the  soil,  the  seed 
a  passing  bird  shall  drop  roots  quickly  in  the 
harrowed  track. 

Lola  reproached  herself  for  her  late  lack 
of  concern  about  the  weal  of  her  whilom 
barnyard  pets,  her  apathy  at  the  birth  of 
Wilhelmina's  heifer,  her  supineness  as  to 
dairy  visiting.  It  was  a  long  time  since  she 
had  watched  the  maids  churning  and  form 
ing  the  melting  gold.  In  Mrs.  Daggett's 
day  she  had  found  leisure  for  all  this.  We 
always  have  the  leisure  to  follow  inclination. 
She  told  herself  that  it  was  all  because  of 
her  farmer's  wife,  of  the  dislike  which  she 
felt  for  her.  She  disliked  to  be  in  the  room 
with  her,  even  to  catch  sight  of  her  in  the 
distance,  and  she  chafed  at  herself  for  being 


248        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

so  unreasonable.  Mrs.  Bush  was  not  worth 
such  animosity. 

"  Dear  me,"  she  said  to  Mrs.  Ayrault  one 
morning,  "  I  suppose  I  must  pull  myself  up 
tox  the  cottage,  and  take  some  interest  in 
things  generally.  The  butter  was  poor  last 
week." 

The  little  party,  disbanded  after  Mr.  Mar- 
ston's  political  eclipse,  had  now  returned  to 
pass  the  Sunday  which  was  the  last  of  sum 
mer.  May  Plunkett  had  driven  over  with 
some  young  people  to  play  tennis.  It  was 
warm,  and  she  and  Asch  left  the  others  and 
came  to  ask  for  lemonade. 

"  It  will  be  fun,"  said  Arden. 

"Fun?"  I  don't  like  the  woman.  I 
don't  think  I  can  stand  her  much  longer. 
She  is  so  pretentious,  so  queer,  and  I  don't 
understand  her.  She  embarrasses  me.  There 
is  no  fun  in  scolding  her,  as  I  must,  about 
the  butter.  She  will  probably  be  insolent. 
I  am  always  expecting  it  from  her." 

Mrs.  Ayrault  sighed. 

"Why  do  you  sigh,  dearest?  " 

"  I  sigh  because  I  have  missed  my  voca 
tion." 

"  Your  vocation?  " 

"Yes.  I  was  just  made  for  this;  to  look 
after  butter  and  eggs  and  chickens,  and 
farmers'  wives,  and  quarrel  with  them  about 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        249 

the  cream;  to  have  babies,  to  fondle  and 
sew  for  them,  to  see  that  their  pantalets  were 
properly  embroidered  as  our  great  grand 
mothers  used.  I  was  created  for  domestic 
joys.  I  am  a  dog-woman  playing  the  cat. 
A  dog-woman  with  a  big,  faithful  dog's 
heart,  who  is  playing  at  being  a  syren,  and 
who  makes  a  jolly  mess  of  it. 

"This  is  a  new  light  upon  you,"  said 
Lola,  laughing. 

"  No,  it  is  not;  but  you  're  so  innocent, 
and  so  sweet,  just  as  sweet  as  sugar  candy! 
Anybody  can  impose  upon  you.  I  have.  I 
have  also  imposed  on  Beaumont.  On  you 
because  you  are  so  ingenuous,  on  him  be 
cause  he  is  so  perverted.  He  thinks  me 
vain,  wayward,  capricious,  untractable,  pos 
sibly  false — everything  a  man  of  his  type 
most  adores.  I,  in  fact,  have  no  vanity,  no 
caprice,  am  not  wayward  enough  to  turn 
that  silly  weather-cock  over  there  spinning 
on  your  lawn,  and  as  to  falseness — bah!  the 
very  thought  of  it  makes  me  sick.  I  loathe 
it.  I  am  truth  embodied.  Pretense  and 
sham  bore  me  so  that  they  give  me  a  pain 
in  my  face,  throat,  and  ears.  Yes,  really, 
when  I  try  to  flatter,  for  instance,  just  a 
little,  just  to  keep  my  hand  in,  I  have  to 
send  for  the  doctor  and  take  pills.  I  was 
made  for  a  pot  au  feu  existence,  with  my 


250        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

gude  man  opposite  smoking  his  pipe,  my 
bairnes  frolicking  at  my  knee,  while  I  re- 
Leeled  the  family  stockings,  or  read  '  Pil 
grim's  Progress  '  aloud.  And  now  this  be 
ing  so,  let  us  go  up  and  examine  the  lurid 
Mrs.  Bush,  who  no  doubt  will  look  upon  me 
with  disapprobation  as  upon  a  dangerous, 
wicked  enchantress,  when  I  know  perfectly 
well  I  'm  a  decent,  respectable,  reasonable 
person,  with  no  more  evil  in  me  than  a  com 
mon  house-fly,  and  about  as  much  fascina 
tion  as  a  drone  bumble-bee." 

Some  stragglers  came  in  just  in  time  for 
Mrs.  Ayrault's  climax.  It  was  received  with 
laughter,  and  a  general  clamor  ensued  to  be 
allowed  to  witness  the  impression  Mrs.  Ay- 
rault  would  produce  on  the  "lurid  Bush." 

The  lemonade  having  been  sipped,  May 
Plunkett  and  Asch,  Mrs.  Ayrault  and  Lola, 
the  Count,  and  one  or  two  others  picked 
up  their  respective  hats,  parasols,  and  walk 
ing  sticks,  and  were  soon  ascending  the  path 
that  lead  up  to  the  cottage.  It  ran  between 
deciduous  bushes,  up  a  gentle  declivity,  un 
til  it  emerged  upon  the  open  ground  which 
environed  the  farm  buildings. 

On  that  very  morning  another  unpleasant 
little  scene  had  occurred  between  Bush  and 
his  master.  Two  of  the  farm  hands  got 
drunk.  Their  work  was  neglected.  Mr. 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        251 

Marston,  vexed,  rebuked  Joe  for  inefficiency 
in  controlling  the  men  under  him. 

"You  do  your  own  work  well  enough," 
he  said,  "but  you  don't  seem  to  have  any 
faculty  for  making  others  work,  or  control- 
ing  them.  They  are  not  afraid  of  you, 
therefore  your  orders  are  ineffectual." 

Now  Joe  knew  this — Mr.  Marston  had 
put  his  finger  in  a  wound.  He  winced.  We 
rarely  acknowledge  the  weakness  in  our 
selves  which  we  know  to  be  paramount. 
Joe  became  somewhat  dogged. 

"  I  tries  to  please  ye,"  he  kept  repeating 
in  his  usual  refrain,  dull-eyed,  exasperating. 

"It's  no  question  of  pleasing.  I  say  it's 
unfortunate,  most  unfortunate,  when  the 
foreman  can  't  get  work  and  obedience  out 
of  his  men.  They  get  drunk  three  days  out 
of  the  week,  and  you  have  to  look  to  all 
their  duties  as  well  as  your  own." 

"  I  ain't  lazy,"  said  Joe,  deprecatingly. 

"Who  says  you're  lazy?  Do  I?  No 
body  charges  you  with  laziness.  What  I 
say  is  that  you  have  no  faculty  as  an  over 
seer,  and  on  this  place  that  is  what  I  want." 

Then  Joe  became  a  trifle  testy,  and  said  if 
men  had  the  devil  of  drink  in  them  he 
did  n't  see  what  he  was  to  do  about  it.  All 
he  could  promise  was  to  keep  sober  himself, 
which  being  logical  was  provoking.  Mr. 


252        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

Marston  rebuked  him  sharply  for  his  reply, 
and  they  parted  not  the  best  of  friends. 
There  was  again  that  vague  threat  of  dis 
missal  which  filled  Joe  with  despair,  because 
he  liked  his  place,  prized  its  advantages, 
and  was  by  nature  averse  to  change.  He 
knew  that  he  could  find  nothing  that  he 
liked  better,  and  looked  back  with  a  certain 
terror  upon  the  unremunerative  responsibili 
ties  of  his  mother's  farm.  To  gauge  our 
own  limitations  and  to  love  those  who  point 
them  out  to  us,  is  not  the  same  process.  By 
an  impulse  extremely  unusual  to  him,  he 
threw  down  his  rake  and  came  up  to  find 
his  wife.  His  heart  was  sore  within  him. 
He  half  hoped  she  would  receive  his  out 
poured  plaint — for  he  told  her  what  had 
passed,  dwelling  on  his  wrongs — with  fire  as 
of  old.  He  felt  that  it  would  relieve  his 
sense  of  injustice  done,  since  he  himself  had 
no  gift  of  expression,  and  his  own  indigna 
tion  had  always  more  of  an  element  of  sor 
row  in  it  than  of  anger. 

But,  true  to  her  resolves,  Beth,  dry-lip 
ped,  dry-eyed,  listened  but  answered  not. 
Thoroughly  a  woman,  living  more  in  one 
present  minute  than  in  decades  of  the  future, 
the  thought  of  possible  dismissal  neverthe 
less  made  her  sick  and  faint.  And  for  in 
competence! — her  husband's!  hers!  What 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        253 

a  triumph  for  the  servants  over  there!  For 
the  men  and  maids  she  had  offended — for 
Pierre  Rose,  whom  she  knew  to  be  her  un 
forgiving  enemy.  What  a  stain  before  the 
villagers  to  whom  these  nearer  ones  would 
soon  betray  the  truth  with  covert  jeers.  Not 
that! — not  that!  They  would  themselves 
give  warning,  throw  up  the  place,  but  never 
— never — never  acknowledge  that  they  were 
beaten  and  undone  in  such  a  way  as  this. 

If  I  seem  to  exaggerate  so  trifling  an  in 
cident  as  a  threatened  change  of  farmers  by 
a  Long  Island  landowner,  I  have  failed  to 
portray  Beth  as  she  was.  What  makes  us 
smile,  we  who  mayhap  have  wider  horizons 
and  larger  hopes,  to  her  was  terrible  and 
tragical.  So  she  gulped  down  her  passion 
of  resentment,  and  spoke  quite  firmly  and 
wisely — to  Joe's  infinite  amazement — actu 
ally  advising  a  stronger  hand  over  the  men, 
and  pacific  measures  with  "the  Marstons." 
She  spoke  of  them  thus  with  an  infinite  con 
tempt  of  intonation,  but  with  no  outward 
sign  of  violence  or  ill-will. 

He  returned  to  his  work  and  she  to  her 
reflections,  but  neither  had  gone  far  before 
the  sound  of  voices  and  of  steps  upon  the 
gravel  flurried  Beth  to  the  conclusion  that 
visitors  were  approaching. 

Picking  their  way  through  the  shrubbery, 


254        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

passing  the  "Colony,"  a  white  pavilion 
between  the  house  and  farm  where  an  over 
flow  of  bachelor  guests  sometimes  found 
shelter,  Mrs.  Marston  and  her  friends  had 
reached  the  cottage  porch.  Now  all  women 
should  know  better  than  to  invade  the  farm 
er's  wife's  domains  at  half-past  eleven  of  a 
morning,  when  she  is  sure  to  be  among  her 
pots  and  kettles,  her  washing,  baking,  brew 
ing,  or  dinner-getting,  and  Beth,  even 
though  she  kept  a  "slavey,"  and  wore  lace 
on  her  parasol,  was  no  exception  to  the  rule. 

She  was  a  trifle  unkempt,  a  bit  bedrag 
gled.  She  had  just  time  to  beat  a  hasty  re 
treat,  to  scuffle  quickly  up  to  her  bedroom, 
from  where  she  called  to  "  Jane  "  for  a  mo 
ment's  parley. 

Jane,  red-handed,  mealy  from  her  bread- 
making,  appeared  upon  the  stairs. 

"  It 's  Miss  Marston  and  the  folks  from 
the  big  house,"  she  announced  in  a  stage 
whisper,  with  witless  gestures  and  silly 
noddings. 

"  Ask  them  into  the  best  parlor,  tell  'em 
I  '11  be  down  in  half  a  second,  and  here — 
stop,  Jane," — Beth  grew  agonized,  for  Jane 
had  already  disappeared.  She  had  heard, 
however,  and  came  back. 

"  I  'm  here,  Miss  Bush." 

"  Throw  open  one  of  the  shutters,  only 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        255 

one,  do  you  hear,  and  just  pass  a  duster 
over  the  table.  I  ain't  been  in  there  to-day 
to  do  my  dusting." 

With  more  cabalistic  signs  and  posturings, 
Jane  once  more  vanished. 

Beth  heard  her  open  the  door.  A  light 
step  crossed  the  threshold.  There  was  a 
rattling  at  the  shutter  beneath.  The  girl 
was  obeying  her  commands. 

A  sense  of  discouragement  invaded  Beth 
when  she  caught  sight  of  her  soiled  calico, 
her  hair  done  up  in  its  matutinal  curl 
papers,  her  finger-nails,  and  her  complexion. 
There  was  no  time  to  be  lost.  Galvanized 
into  febrile  action  by  the  sounds  below — 
they  told  her  that  only  Mrs.  Marston  had 
entered  the  cottage  and  that  the  others 
were  conversing  with  her  from  the  porch 
through  the  open  window — Beth  tore  the 
papers  from  her  forehead,  hastily  tossed  up 
her  hair,  wiped  off  her  face  and  hands  on  a 
damp  towel,  disengaged  herself  at  a  bound 
from  her  skirt  and  bodice.  For  an  instant 
she  stood  irresolute.  What  should  she  put 
on?  From  below  she  could  hear  the  con 
versation.  Her  name  was  mentioned.  She 
paused  intent  to  listen.  Were  they  laugh 
ing  at  her  already?  But  the  words  were 
innocent. 

"  Mrs.    Bush   is    very   fortunate    to    have 


256        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

such  a  pretty  little  house.  I  could  live  here 
myself,  with  the  man  of  my  heart,"  Miss 
Plunkett  was  saying. 

"Your  ...  er  ...  what?"  asked  Fenno 
Asch. 

"  O,  you  need  n't  sneer,  Mr.  Asch.  I  'm 
serious.  I  say  I  could  give  up  worldly  am 
bitions  for  ..." 

"  Don't  talk  twaddle,  May,"  said  Mrs. 
Ayrault.  "  Mr.  Asch's  interrogation  is 
legitimate  and  even  well-timed.  You 
need  n't  pout  and  toss  your  mane.  We  've 
heard  of  the  Colonel,  and  the  dance  you  're 
leading  him." 

"  You  see  the  Colonel  does  n't  exactly 
offer  love  in  a  cottage,"  said  May,  laughing. 

"  Poor  thing!  Is  it  his  fault  that  every 
thing  he  looks  at  turns  to  gold?  " 

"  Even  mademoiselle's  hair,"  said  de 
Beaumont. 

"  If  you  mean  by  that,  Monsieur  de  Beau 
mont,  that  my  hair  is  n't  a  natural  product 
...  or  that  the  Colonel  dares  ..." 

"  Dieurri en  garde  Mademoiselle,  I  said  ..." 

"  If  we  had  found  a  nice  old-fashioned 
farmhouse  on  this  place,"  Lola  was  explain 
ing  from  her  place  at  the  window-sill,  "  I 
doubt  if  Mr.  Marston  ever  would  have  built. 
We  could  have  added  and  tinkered,  and 
been  romantic  and  uncomfortable,  but  now 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        257 

I  am  glad  he  built,  for  the  house  is  the 
apple  of  his  eye." 

"Your  house  is  charming,"  said  Mrs. 
Ayrault.  "So  airy,  and  wide,  and  cool. 
And  I  think  you  like  it  too." 

"  O,  I  adore  my  home,"  said  Lola.  Her 
words,  mellifluously  spoken,  came  direct  to 
Elizabeth's  straining  ears. 

In  the  meantime  the  dice  was  cast. 
Some  evil  genius  surely  held  the  cup. 
From  a  dark  corner  of  her  closet  Beth  de 
tached  the  tea-gown.  It  looked  strangely 
pink  on  this  bright  morning.  Her  fingers 
grew  awkward  amid  its  intricacies.  Clum 
sily  pulling  at  buttons,  seeking  for  strings, 
fluffing  up  bows  of  ribbon,  she  put  it  on. 
She  did  so  waveringly,  with  hesitation  and 
doubt.  When  she  approached  the  mirror 
she  thought  herself  hideous.  Should  she 
tear  the  thing  off  and  cast  it  from  her  as  be 
ing  a  demoniacal  temptation,  don  the  crisp 
calico  which  lay  at  hand,  fresh  from  the 
iron,  suitable  and  trim?  But  the  desire  to 
appear  at  leisure,  elegant,  a  lady,  in  the  eyes 
of  these  people  carried  the  day.  The  tradi 
tion  of  the  Mascotte  holds  a  grain  of  veri 
similitude.  If  we  have  not  all  mascottes  we 
are  at  least  prone  to  believe  in  the  power  of 
their  opposites.  Certain  persons  seem  to 
bring  us  trouble.  It  is  positive  that  there 


258        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

are  those  who  always  find  us  at  a  disadvan 
tage.  Their  visits  appear  timed  to  meer 
our  ruffled  tempers,  our  disturbed  digestions, 
our  disarranged  coiffures,  and  this  invaria 
bly,  persistently,  through  years  of  vain 
effort  to  snap  and  conquer  the  fateful  spell 
they  weave.  Are  they  never  to  find  us 
calm,  dignified  and  dressed,  at  rest  with 
them  and  the  world?  Their  announcement 
at  last  seems  a  portent  of  disaster,  their 
heralding  a  menace,  their  very  name  a  hid 
den  threat,  their  presence  a  calamity.  Is  it 
possible  that  upon  so  feeble  a  web  as  a  pink 
garment,  poor  Beth  had  hung  her  future 
and  its  peace? 

Pinning  a  recalcitrant  fold  about  her 
throat,  tripping  over  the  front  breadth,  which 
was  an  inch  too  long,  thrusting  an  escaped 
hairpin  in  her  hair,  with  a  heart  beating  to 
bursting  and  a  hand  shaking  with  agitation, 
Beth  crossed  the  hall.  Mrs.  Marston  had 
never  seen  the  tea-gown.  Beth  knew  it.  It 
was  for  this  she  had  put  it  on.  She  thought 
it  such  a  pity  that  it  should  waste  and  fade, 
and  Mrs.  Marston  never  know!  If  its  in 
vestiture  produced  surprise,  on  Mrs.  Mar- 
ston's  face  there  was  no  sign.  She  drew 
her  chair  a  little  from  the  window  in  her 
light  gracious  way,  greeting  Mrs.  Bush  in 
her  low  voice,  half  drowned  by  the  gayety 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART       259 

from  the  porch,  which,  it  must  be  confessed, 
was  waxing  boisterous. 

"Your  friends  are  merry, "said  Beth,  with 
a  pinched  smile.  "Would  they  like  to  come 
in?" 

"  No,  I  think  not.  I  only  ran  up  for  a 
moment  just  to  ask  about  Wilhelmina,  and 
to  speak  about  the  butter.  They  are  waiting 
for  me." 

Then  Beth,  ill  at  ease,  beating  about  for 
a  topic,  launched  as  usual  into  those  com 
plaints  which  never  failed  to  arouse  Lola's 
ire. 

"  The  dairy  's  damp,"  she  said.  "  I  ain't 
been  used  to  one  under  ground.  It 's  no 
wonder  the  butter  gets  a  taste.  Now  down 
in  Pontifex  ..." 

"We  give  everything  that's  required," 
said  Lola,  not  quite  gently. 

Beth  saw  her  annoyance,  and  the  demands 
of  hospitality  forced  her  to  hold  out  the 
olive  branch. 

Would  Mrs.  Marston  have  a  glass  of 
cherry  wine  she  had  made  herself?  She 
asked  it  with  the  majesty  of  an  empress, 
and  called  "Jane"  in  the  tone  with  which 
Cleopatra  might  have  summoned  Charmian. 
Lola,  willing  to  be  mollified,  assented.  She 
did  not  like  such  cordials,  but  when  Jane 
brought  it,  after  a  very  long  delay,  she 


260        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

tasted  it  good-naturedly  and  handed  glasses 
through  the  window  to  her  guests,  and 
chatted  pleasantly.  By-and-by  the  conver 
sation  flagged  so  hopelessly  that  she  got  up 
to  leave.  Beth  accompanied  her  to  the 
door.  Their  apparition  produced  a  curious 
hush.  All  eyes  were  turned. 

"  It 's  Mrs.  Bush,"  said  Lola,  addressing 
the  company  in  general  and  no  one  in  par 
ticular,  with  a  slight  movement  of  the  hand. 

Asch  got  up,  stretched  himself,  and 
yawned.  de  Beaumont  brought  his  heels 
together  with  a  click,  and  bowed  low,  taking 
off  his  straw  hat  with  its  blue  ribbon.  May 
Plunkett  said: 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Bush,  I  think  your  cottage  is 
such  a  dear." 

Mrs.  Ayrault  adjusted  her  lorgnon.  Beth 
shivered  as  it  swept  her  figure  into  its  com 
prehensive  focus. 

"How  are  you,  Mrs.  Bush?"  she  said, 
with  a  slightly  sarcastic  inflection  and  illy 
concealed  amusement.  I  hope  we  have  n't 
disturbed  you.  We  're  a  noisy  lot,  I  'm 
afraid.  Mrs.  Marston  wanted  to  leave  us  at 
home,  but  we  insisted  upon  coming  up  to 
see  you,  and  we  're  so  glad  now  that  we  did. 
Your  cherry  wine  is  excellent — thanks!" 
As  she  spoke  she  handed  her  half-emptied 
glass  to  Beth,  whose  fingers  had  been  out- 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        261 

stretched  for  a  handshake,  and  who  received 
it  sidewise,  dripping  its  lees  upon  the  trim 
mings  of  her  strange  raiment.  She  sought 
some  word  which  came  not,  with  which  to 
quench  this  handsome,  mocking  woman. 
With  those  quick  instincts  which  lie  inher 
ent  in  American  women  Beth  had  divined 
the  effect  that  she  produced.  She  saw  her 
self  .  .  .  ridiculous.  Yes,  and  when  a  few 
moments  later  their  words,  their  jests,  came 
back  to  her,  she  knew. 

"Did  you  ever  see  such  a  guy?"  said 
Fenno  Asch. 

"  Does  she  always  get  herself  up  so?  " 
said  May  Plunkett,  "  or  was  it  for  our  special 
benefit?" 

"  In  my  country,"  said  de  Beaumont,  "  the 
mattresses  fermieres  wear  a  blue  cotton  apron 
and  cap." 

"  Mrs.  Bush,"  said  Arden,  "was  certainly 
wonderful." 

Et  tu,  Brute!  For  above  all  pierced 
Lola's  verdict.  "  She  was  grotesque." 

Then  there  were  peals  of  riotous  laughter, 
ill-bred  as  only  that  of  men  and  women 
whom  etiquette  habitually  controls;  the  re 
volt  of  a  long  thraldom,  the  protest  of  fash 
ion  against  rule.  The  ultra-civilized  must 
have  his  holiday  when-  the  pristine  animal 
wakes  up,  to  howl  and  grin,  uncaged  and  free. 


262        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

Fainter  and  fainter  grew  their  voices, 
more  and  more  distant  the  reverberations  of 
their  derision.  But  they  had  been  careless. 
Peering  through  the  creepers,  her  hands 
upon  her  temples,  a  million  scorpion  tongues 
let  loose  to  lash  her  ears!  What!  they  all! 
Pitted  against  one!  Powerful,  self-possessed, 
cynical!  And  but  the  one  at  bay!  fettered, 
insignificant,  "  grotesque  "  —  she — she — had 
said  it!  In  that  quick  birth  of  time  before 
the  mirthful  echo  of  their  laughter  died 
on  her  ears,  before  she  dragged  herself 
into  the  house,  Beth  had  traversed  the  nar 
row  verge  which  separates  hatred  from 
crime. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

They  strolled  across  the  gardens,  heedless, 
merry.  They  settled  on  the  terrace.  From 
Mrs.  Bush's  false  ambitions  which  found 
expression  in  monkey  tricks  of  futile  imita 
tion,  they  fell  to  discussing  the  various  ele 
ments  which  compose  the  elective  associa 
tion  called  society. 

"  I  like  my  own  dear,  dull,  insipid  set  the 
best,"  Arden  was  saying,  decapitating  poppy- 
heads  as  she  talked,  with  probing  parasol. 
"We  know  each  other's  grip  masonic,  we 
understand  each  other.  I  can  chaff  my  in 
timates,  rebuke  and  snub  them.  They  re 
turn  the  compliment  in  kind,  and  gener 
ously.  No  evil  is  intended,  no  offense 
taken.  We  abuse  each  other  roundly,  then 
kiss  and  come  to  tea.  All  is  clear.  I  have 
had  my  vision  of  Bohemia,  and  have  taken 
a  flyer  now  and  again  into  that  realm,  and 
oh!  how  gladly  have  I  crept  back  to  our 
Philistine  ranks,  all  torn  up,  bitten,  and 
ashamed!  When  I  walk  and  am  tired,  I 
don't  care  to  rest  on  a  wasp's  nest.  Of  the 
263 


264        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

inhabitants  of  Bohemia,  only  the  real  ones 
are  interesting.  Most  of  them  are  half-and- 
halfs,  and  these  are  intolerable.  A  manqut 
man  or  woman  of  the  world  is  deplorable, 
but  a  manqu^  Bohemian  is  far  worse.  He 
lacks  sincerity.  Oh,  I  Ve  had  the  craze  for 
sad-eyed  female  poets  and  for  geniuses  of 
the  tattered  coat.  We  have  all  been  there. 
It 's  picturesque.  But  the  fact  is  they  're 
just  like  ourselves,  without  our  amiability 
and  with  a  million  times  more  conceit.  And 
one  never  can  say  the  right  word  to  their 
self-worship;  they  are  never  satisfied.  The 
nicer  we  are  to  them  the  more  they  black 
guard  us.  They  are  always  '  disappointed  ' 
in  our  entertainments,  surprised  to  find  our 
gowns  unbecoming,  our  houses  stuffy,  our 
manners  abominable.  They  sigh.  They 
had  looked  for  better  things.  The  sad-eyed 
poet  is  touchy.  She  asks  if  our  women 
friends  intended  to  slight  her,  our  men  to  be 
over-familiar.  Every  topic  bristles  with 
dangers,  every  word  must  be  weighed.  A 
la  fin  such  commerce  is  ...  irksome." 

"The  people  who  provide  the  music  for 
others  to  dance  by  are  always  blackguarded," 
said  Mr.  Isham.  "  Their  energy  is  consid 
ered  frivolous.  Even  Horace  has  his  little 
fling  at  the  entertainers.  They  amuse 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART       265 

Maecenas  too  splendidly,  he  thinks.  To  me 
they  seem  unselfish." 

"  I  never  tried  any  other  set  but  our  own," 
said  a  young  married  lady  who  had  driven 
some  miles  for  a  call,  "because  it  would 
bore  my  husband."  She  began  to  give  her 
opinions  of  life  in  general  and  of  husbands 
in  particular.  Her  own  hated  serious  peo 
ple  only  liked  sporting  men  and  larky  wo 
men.  So  she  humored  him.  She  never 
denied  him  anything  .  .  .  anything  within 
reason,  and  the  society  which  pleased  him. 
That  was  the  only  way  to  keep  a  man. 

"  I  think  the  only  way  to  keep  a  man 
quiet,"  she  was  saying,  "  is  never  to  deny 
him  any  physical  pleasure." 

"  Eh  ?  What?  "  said  Mr.  Isham,  staring, 
with  his  hand  at  his  ear. 

"  I  put  down  my  opera  box  and  footman 
last  winter — such  hard  times,  you  know — 
that  Blunt  might  have  his  hunters.  He  must 
have  his  exercise.  Men  must  be  exercised 
and  amused  or  they  get  drinking  and  frol 
icking." 

There  was  something  impersonal  and  ex 
tremely  na'ive  in  these  revelations  of  conju 
gal  theory.  Impersonal  and  absolutely  de 
void  of  vanity.  One  felt,  she  thought  she 
or  another  could  do  it  as  well;  conduct  an 


266        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

orderly  household,   give  good   dinners,  see 
that  the  husband  got  his  gallop. 

She  was  tall,  with  the  figure  and  uncon 
scious  movements  of  a  handsome  boy.  Her 
smile  was  full  of  childish  explanations. 
She  had  pretty  blown  brown  hair,  and  large 
round  eyes,  iridescent  like  soap  bubbles  seen 
in  candlelight.  If  these  eyes  were  not 
charged  with  mystery  or  danger  they  were 
at  least  honest.  She  impressed  one  with 
her  honesty.  She  informed  the  company 
that  she  read  all  the  books  that  were  worth 
reading  as  quickly  as  they  could  be  printed, 
but  that  she  never  spoke  of  their  contents 
to  her  husband  lest  he  should  be  fatigued. 
Men  could  not  be  expected  to  take  an  inter 
est  in  women's  pursuits.  Mrs.  Blunt  had  an 
answer  ready  for  every  timeworn  riddle,  but 
how  to  keep  a  husband  was,  she  thought  the 
most  important  one.  While  she  elaborated 
her  resources  in  this  direction — which  were 
doubtless  ample  and  fruitful — Arden  Ayrault 
yawned  at  stated  intervals  with  unblushing 
openness.  She  had  not  kept  her  husband. 
If  report  spoke  truly,  somebody's  else 
wife  was  keeping  him,  and  Arden  thought  it 
just  as  well.  She  had  separated  from  him 
some  years  before.  The  mere  remembrance 
of  the  man  wearied  her.  All  those  things 
which  had  torn  her  life  had  happened  so 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        267 

long  ago  that  they  brought  mental  lassitude. 
Light  discourse  could  never  reach  or  touch 
them  any  more.  She  had  a  sense  of  un 
reality  as  to  her  past. 

"  Dear  me,"  said  she,  "  and  how  long  can 
a  man  be  kept  constant  on  this  regime? 
One  craves  instruction." 

"  I  should  say  that  one  might  keep  a  man 
with  these  methods  until  he  was  seventy," 
said  Mrs.  Blunt,  with  conviction. 

"  But  women  grow  old  and  ugly,"  ven 
tured  Lola. 

"  My  dear,  don't  get  so  easily  discour 
aged,"  said  Arden,  mischievously.  "  Diane 
de  Poitiers  allured  three  generations,  and 
Helen  of  Troy  was  forty-six  when  she  set 
towns  on  fire." 

"  Fancy!"  said  Lola. 

"  In  these  days  of  Babcock  extinguishers 
the  fire  would  be  put  out  before  it  ever  went 
to  history,  and  the  poor  Helens  get  no 
credit." 

"  I  read  in  Ninon  de  1'Enclos's  Memoirs 
that  she  had  a  lover  of  eighty-four,"  said 
Mrs.  Blunt. 

"  I  think  it  was  horrid  of  her  then,"  said 
Lola.  "  Forty  breaks  most  women's  hearts. 
I  should  think  by  eight-four  that  organ 
would  be  pretty  well  battered." 

"Well,    I'm    seventy,"   said    Mr.   Isham, 


268        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

"  and  mine  is  not  completely  damaged 
yet." 

"  How  can  the  heart  be  kept  young? " 
sighed  Arden. 

"  Don't  over-eat,  don't  be  envious,  and 
never  backbite,"  said  the  artist. 

"  Genius  has  no  age,"  said  Lola  to  him, 
"  but  when  I  am  old,  who  have  no  talents, 
only  affections,  I  want  an  old  dead  heart.  It 
would  be  so  dreadful  to  love  without  requital." 

"  By  the  way,  is  May  Plunkett  going  to 
marry  that  Western  Colonel? "  asked  the 
practical  Mrs.  Blunt. 

"  I  should  think  he  was  much  too  old  for 
her,"  said  Lola. 

"Tut,  tut,"  said  Mr.  Isham.  "If  she  is 
what  I  take  her  for,  Miss  Plunkett  likes  her 
own  way.  Let  her  take  her  lover  of  fifty 
then.  There  's  nothing  so  mulish  as  a  boy. 
Men  of  fifty  have  occasionally  blundered, 
are  conscious  of  some  failures,  but  trie  young 
fellows  have  no  such  handicaps.  Why  at 
twenty  I  was  as  obstinate  as  a  pig.  Odious. 
Well,  now  I  'm  seventy" — he  rose  and  drew 
up  to  the  wood  fire,  turning  his  back  to  the 
flame,  and  warming  his  hands  under  his  coat- 
tails — "  I  look  upon  quinquagenarians  as 
mere  lads.  Ha!  ha!  So  it  goes!  So  it 
goes!"  And  he  laughed,  and  wheezed,  in 
genial  contentment. 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        269 

"  What  the  ladies  like  is  ardor,"  said  the 
Count.  "  Women  like  men  who  take  them 
seriously." 

"  Is  that  the  reason  they  coddle  Asch?" 
said  Mr.  Marston,  maliciously.  "  Hang  it, 
if  I  've  ever  been  able  to  account  for  what 
women  did  like  or  dislike." 

"  Ah,  a  man  is  more  than  a  god  or  less 
than  a  man  with  the  ladies,"  said  Mr.  Isham, 
"  according  to  their  sweet  caprice." 

"  One  cannot  say,"  said  the  Count,  reflec 
tively,  "  that  I' ami  Asch  is  entreprenant." 

To  the  Frenchman  full  of  enthusiasm  and 
of  blood,  a  temperament  which  no  mood  of 
gayety,  no  game  of  personal  interest,  no 
titillation  of  vanity,  no  gust  of  passion  ever 
seemed  to  sway  or  to  excite  was  an  enigma 
profoundly  repulsive,  yet  withal  interesting. 
He  had  watched  Fenno  Asch  as  the  Latins 
watch,  with  keen  critical  acumen  whetted  by 
distrust.  His  distrust  he  found  groundless. 
Asch's  habitual  and  general  incivility  turned 
out  to  spring  from  no  enmity,  but  from  the 
impassive  indifference  which  ground  ambas 
sadors  in  the  same  mortar  as  ordinary  peo 
ple,  but  which  otherwise  did  not  interfere 
with  them.  The  young  man's  absence  of  all 
reverence  disarmed  de  Beaumont's  suspi 
cion  that  he  intended  to  be  impolite,  pushed 
by  that  twinge  of  jealousy,  envy,  or  manly 


270        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

rivalry  so  common  among  his  own  people, 
de  Beaumont  had  studied  him  carefully.  He 
knew  that  to  Fenno  Asch  the  trump  of  an 
archangel  would  have  seemed  no  more  than 
the  blast  of  a  penny  whistle,  the  rush  of  his 
mighty  wing  no  greater  than  the  flutter  of 
barnyard  feathers.  Before  the  loveliness  of 
the  loveliest  woman  he  knew  the  young  man 
could  remain  without  dream  as  without  de 
sire,  while  the  favors  of  an  empress  would 
have  left  his  heart  cold  and  his  head  clear. 
The  Frenchman  was  torn,  in  his  contempla 
tion  of  this  peculiar  temperament  which  be 
littles  all  things,  between  hot  scorn  and  gen 
uine  admiration. 

"  I  should  kill  myself  if  the  man  I  loved 
wearied  of  me,"  Lola  was  saying  to  Arden, 
who  followed  Mr.  Isham's  lead  and  enlarged 
on  the  fickleness  of  immature  affections. 

"  O,  my  dear,  I  daresay,"  she  replied, 
with  the  mellow  laugh  which  often  belied 
her  words  and  puzzled  the  dull-witted. 
"  You  are  capable  of  just  such  silliness. 
What 's  the  use,  will  you  tell  me,  of  letting 
him  survive  to  have  a  nice  time?  Du  rcste, 
my  love,  a  man  who  had  once  tasted  of  your 
sweetness  and  who  could  get  tired  of  it 
would  not  be  fit  to  live  an  hour.  His  career 
had  better  be  closed  at  once.  He  would  be 
a  dog."  She  spoke  jestingly,  but  with  spirit 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        271 

and  meaning.  Lola  blushed  furiously,  she 
knew  not  why.  Marston  nodded  at  his  wife, 
smiling.  He  seemed  to  say  to  her: 

"  I  'm  all  right.  I  'm  a  faithful  husband. 
Don't  worry.  I  'm  faithful." 

"  Bless  me  if  he  is  n't  reassuring  her," 
thought  Mr.  Isham,  and  chuckled  to  him 
self.  His  host's  fatuity  always  diverted  him. 
It  is  to  be  surmised  Mrs.  Marston  was  grate 
ful.  There  are  moods,  however,  when 
women  need  less  to  be  assured  about  the 
sentiments  they  inspire  than  about  those 
which  they  experience.  When  they  throw 
out  tentacula  in  that  direction  it  is  unfortu 
nate  that  man's  obtuseness  rarely  offers  them 
the  needed  aliment.  The  artist  had  some 
times  seen  a  wistful  look  in  Lola's  eyes 
which  had  gone  through  his  tough  heart. 

"Why  doesn't  he  fall  at  her  feet?"  he 
would  ask  himself  with  the  ingenuousness  of 
the  man  who  is  n't  married. 

Archie  ran  in  just  then  with  his  insepara 
ble  friends  and  followers,  the  mastiffs  and 
the  collie.  He  sat  upon  a  stool,  at  his 
mamma's  bidding,  and  drank  a  cup  of  milk, 
and  nibbled  a  piece  of  cake  with  aristocratic 
daintiness,  and  his  father,  when  he  looked 
at  him,  trembled  with  joy  and  pride,  the  joy 
and  pride  of  his  own  prowess.  His  love  for 
his  little  boy  was  very  real.  He  called  him 


272        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

to  his  side,  and  pulled  his  curls,  and  poked 
him  in  the  ribs,  and  played  with  him  as  per 
haps  the  butcher  may  have  played  with  his 
own  offspring.  Archie  laughed  and 
screamed  with  delight,  and  spilled  his  milk 
and  was  not  scolded  for  it. 

By-and-by  they  scattered  to  rest  or  read 
in  their  own  apartments,  and  later  to  array 
themselves  for  the  cheerful  feasting  and 
music  of  the  evening  hour. 

When  Lola  bade  her  husband  good-night, 
she  said  to  him: 

"  People  seem  to  enjoy  themselves  here, 
dearest.  They  like  our  home  as  much  as  we 
do.  I  am  sure  I  hope  they  are  comfortable. 
Kiss  me." 

Then  quiet  fell  on  the  silent  terraces,  a 
brooding  stillness  on  the  stately  villa. 
Everything  slept.  Not  a  sound  swept  the 
night  under  its  heaven  of  stars;  but  about 
two  o'clock  a  change  crept  over  the  weather. 
Gusts  of  wind  seemed  suddenly  let  loose,  to 
beat  and  scream,  and  whirl  about  the  eaves. 

Pierre  Rose  sat  up  and  listened.  Sat  up 
in  his  bed  away  in  the  servant's  wing.  He 
awoke  from  a  dream  of  love.  His  lips  had 
been  glued  to  a  pair  of  lips  the  wish  for 
whose  possession  had  lately  haunted  him. 

Pierre  was  a  man  of  the  world  and  some 
thing  of  a  cynic,  but  his  dreams  were  far 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        273 

less  cool  than  his  tenets.  He  awoke  to  find 
the  ivy  which  grew  close  to  his  window 
sweeping  long  beckoning  fingers  across  its 
pane,  from  which  a  recreant  shutter  had 
blown  back  upon  the  gale.  He  awoke  to 
find  outside  a  wind-swept  darkness,  and 
within  a  sense  of  cold,  of  desolateness,  and 
— what  was  still  more  terrible — a  toothache. 
To  awake  from  a  warm  kiss  to  a  toothache! 

"What  have  I  done?"  thought  Pierre, 
groaning  and  tossing  on  his  bed,  "that  the 
Lord  should  so  sacharner  a  moi  ?  " 

Pierre  was  a  serious  person,  and  in  his 
way  a  believer.  He  was  not  much  of  a 
dreamer  when  once  well  awake.  Earth  was 
earth  to  him,  as  it  is  to  most  philosophic 
Frenchmen;  neither  heaven  or  hell;  a  good 
enough  place  if  one  could  only  keep  one's 
heart  and  one's  self  free  from  too  many 
complications,  earn  one's  bread,  pay  one's 
debts,  and  lay  up  something  for  old  age. 

Now  he  loved,  and  his  love  was  decidedly 
a  complicated  one.  He  was  not  at  all  sure 
that  he  would  suit  the  young  lady,  and  he 
was  perfectly  certain  that  she  did  not  suit 
him.  Her  name  was  Floribel  Pullen.  On 
that  very  afternoon  he  had  met  her  in  the 
woods,  and  had  presented  her  with  a  locket 
which  had  belonged  to  his  mother.  This 
lady  had  been  given  to  lockets.  She  had 


274        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

been  a  celebrity  of  the  concert  cafes,  and 
had  danced  and  sung  to  the  Parisian  public 
for  many  years.  She  had  as  much  jewelry 
as  she  had  lovers,  and  such  of  her  trinkets 
as  had  not  been  sold  to  defray  the  expense 
of  masses  for  her  repose  of  soul  were  still 
owned  by  her  son.  For  this  son  she  was 
ambitious.  She  intended  him  for  the  priest 
hood.  Was  this  a  lurking  expiatory  aspira 
tion  which  the  lad  might  thus  vicariously 
fulfill?  Should  he  rebel,  she  at  least  hoped 
to  make  of  him  a  doctor.  Once,  however, 
in  a  sharp  moment  of  poverty,  when  she  had 
sulked  herself  out  of  engagements,  and  out 
of  lovers,  she  apprenticed  him  as  a  mirmiton 
to  an  Italian  restaurant.  This  sealed  his 
fate.  He  developed  a  culinary  genius  so 
remarkable  that  it  settled  his  destiny.  He 
was  one  of  those  lucky  individuals  whose 
talent  orders  fate. 

Now  his  income  was  larger  than  that  of 
the  average  country  clergyman  or  lawyer.  He 
was  happy  in  his  work,  grateful  to  his  mamma 
for  having  allowed  him  to  follow  his  own 
bent.  He  managed  to  enshrine  the  poor 
woman's  memory  in  an  aureole  of  filial  rev 
erence  that  her  ill-concealed  secrets,  which 
had  poisoned  his  youth,  could  not  dispel. 
Floribel  Pullen  had  admired  the  dangling 
gem  upon  his  watch-chain,  and  Rose  had 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        275 

promptly  severed  it  with  his  pocket-knife 
and  laid  it  at  Circe's  feet.  Floribel  accepted 
the  gift,  offered  half  in  jest.  She  was  one 
of  those  women  who  accept  .  .  .  every 
thing;  but  with  such  affable  acknowledg 
ment  that  a  man  must  feel  himself  the 
debtor  still. 

He  doubted  if  he  would  suit  her,  because 
he  knew  that  the  word  "servant"  meant  in 
Paradise  a  brand  of  immeasurable  oppro 
brium.  He  had  not  forgotten  his  reception 
at  Mrs.  Bush's.  Miss  Pullen  would  certainly 
not  accord  favors  to  a  cook  whom  it  was 
probable  she  would  decline  to  marry. 

Rose  for  years  had  caressed  the  hope  of 
himself  opening  a  restaurant  which  should 
rival  the  great  ones  of  Paris  and  of  New 
York.  Like  all  wise  Frenchmen,  thrifty  in 
his  expenses,  he  had  laid  up  money.  The 
hope  was  fast  ripening  into  a  decision. 
Towering  above  this  refectory  planed  an 
image  of  serene  womanhood.  He  would 
take  a  wife  the  day  he  opened  its  doors. 
But  one  element  was  eliminated  from  his 
purposes.  The  disturbing  mischief-making 
God  of  Love,  that  imp  of  mischiefs  and  mis 
demeanors,  was  to  be  exorcised.  If  Anteros 
was  not  to  be  of  the  banquet,  even  Eros  was 
superfluous.  He  knew  himself  capable  of 
respect  and  tenderness  toward  a  wife. 


276       EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

These  he  thought  would  suffice.  From  a 
stronger  sentiment  he  shrank  in  fear.  Now, 
tossed  on  his  pillow  by  the  sting  of  physical 
suffering,  he  felt  himself  penetrated  by  that 
other  anguish  at  once  so  sweet  and  so 
ensnaring.  Floribel!  She,  whom  he  had 
heard  called  light  a  hundred  times!  She, 
whom  he  barely  respected,  and  loved 
only  with  that  fierce  desire  of  the  senses 
which  he  felt  should  be  eliminated  from 
prudent  marriages.  Floribel  Pullen!  What 
a  helpmeet!  Frivolous  Floribel!  vain  Flori 
bel!  whom  he  adored  just  because  she  was 
so  frivolous  and  so  vain.  He  groaned  and 
turned  upon  his  bed,  a  toy  to  that  master- 
passion  in  which  all  resolve,  like  all  sagacity, 
crumbles  and  lies  crushed. 

Pierre  was  a  quiet,  sensible,  decent  fellow, 
but  Floribel  Pullen  had  laughed  into  his 
eyes  on  the  day  of  Mr.  Marston's  speech, 
and  since  that  hour  he  had  known  no  peace. 
Now,  all  unnerved,  he  got  up  to  fasten  the 
flapping  shutter,  whose  rasping  rattle  yet 
more  excited  his  overwrought  fancy.  He 
raised  the  window  and  looked  out.  The 
night,  in  spite  of  the  windstorm,  was  white 
and  clear.  Upon  the  horizon  were  those 
strange  rays  of  yellow  light  of  which  one 
asks  if  they  are  a  memory  of  the  sun-setting 
or  a  herald  of  the  dawn.  The  senescent 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        277 

moon  had  vanished.  Her  waning  trailed  a 
gleam,  illuminating  the  heavens. 

Lolling  for  a  moment  at  the  casement, 
Rose  became  aware  of  a  furtive  flutter  be 
neath  him,  of  a  step  upon  the  gravel,  a 
breath,  a  sign  of  human  nearness.  Over  the 
country,  save  for  the  fitful  wind,  deep  silence 
reigned.  With  the  strained  eye  and  ear 
which  darkness  lends  to  us,  he  rather  guessed 
than  saw  and  heard  a  presence.  Yes — here 
— there — no  doubt  any  more — he  caught 
distinctly  the  waving  of  a  garment,  a  long, 
light  cloak  flung  out  for  a  moment  against 
the  gale.  The  first  impression  of  his  excited 
brain  was  that  Floribel  had  come  to  him 
...  at  last,  that  in  a  moment  he  would  be 
beside  her,  that  he  would  bear  her  in  his 
arms  to  shelter,  and  that  there  she  would 
shyly,  yet  willingly,  nestle  upon  his  breast. 
Extremely  intelligent,  of  a  nature  more  wary 
than  impulsive,  the  flood  of  rapture  that  the 
hope  brought  him,  the  thirst  for  her  presence 
which  it  awakened,  warned  the  young  man 
decisively  of  where  he  stood.  At  the  same 
moment  a  painful  twinge  from  his  aching 
tooth  sent  the  tears  into  his  black  eyes — 

"  Sacrt  bleu!  Sacrt  totmerre!"  he  exclaimed 
angrily,  carrying  his  hand  to  his  cheek  with 
the  plaint  of  self-pity.  The  flitting  female 
figure  had  vanished;  not,  however,  before 


278        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

he  perceived  it  was  not  Floribel's.  Whose 
then?  The  height,  the  walk,  the  movement 
of  the  head  had  shown — Beth  Bush.  But 
where  one  has  not  seen  the  features,  who 
can  be  certain?  There  are  things  we  know 
of  which  nevertheless  we  fain  would  be  made 
sure.  If  it  indeed  were  she,  what  did  she 
here — alone?  on  this  cold  night?  In  her 
arms  it  had  seemed  to  him  she  bore  some 
bundle.  What?  Something  intangible, 
feathery,  weightless;  it  had  half  flown  from 
her  and  there  against  a  tree  was  lingering, 
entwining,  beating  about  the  trunk.  What 
was  it? 

"  Sacrt  tonnerre!  " 

He  shoved  down  his  window  and  went  to 
a  small  chest,  from  which  he  extracted  a 
vial  of  laudanum.  From  this  he  soon 
dropped  upon  cotton,  torn  from  his  leathern 
jewel-box,  a  few  red  drops  and  placed  them 
in  his  mouth.  Beth  or  another,  he  did  not 
care.  Curious  he  was,  no  doubt,  but  not  to 
the  extent  which  pushes  investigation.  He 
was  suffering  too  much.  Perhaps  it  was  one 
of  the  maids  after  all,  belated  in  the  village, 
letting  herself  in  through  some  carelessly 
latched  aperture.  Yet  it  had  seemed  to  him 
the  farmer's  wife.  It  did  not  occur  to  him 
to  imagine  in  her  nocturnal  errand  evil  in 
tent,  and  certainly  not  one  of  amorous  in- 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        279 

trigue.  He  laughed  at  the  mere  thought. 
Whatever  she  might  be,  her  thin-lipped 
virtue,  the  man  felt,  was  secure.  Rose  was 
a  passable  judge  of  character.  He  rarely 
made  mistakes.  Who  could  tell?  Perhaps 
she  had  heard  the  distant  bleat  of  a  lambkin 
forgotten  by  the  shepherd  in  the  meadow, 
and  had  come  out  to  bring  it  to  the  fold. 

The  fumes  of  the  drug  when  once  again 
he  sought  his  couch,  dulled  alike  wonder 
ment  and  pain.  He  sank  into  heavy  sleep. 
From  this,  two  hours  later,  he  was  suddenly 
startled.  His  arm  was  almost  roughly 
shaken,  two  wild,  frightened  eyes  looked 
into  his,  while  slender  nails  pierced  the  flesh 
above  the  elbow.  They  were  those  of  his 
mistress. 

"  Pierre — Pierre!  "  she  was  saying,  hur 
riedly.  "Quick,  quick,  my  good  Pierre, 
awake,  awake!  Fire!  fire!  " 

Already,  as  he  sat  up,  staring,  he  heard 
her  light  step  through  the  hall  from  sill  to 
sill,  and  her  voice  calling: 

"  Augustine  —  Mary-Ann — Jane — Fran 
cois — fire!  fire!  fire!  Marie — Philip — fire!  " 

And  through  the  corridors  the  words  were 
taken  up  with  cries  of  terror  and  dismay. 
Some  had  locked  doors;  others,  like  Pierre, 
left  theirs  ajar;  some  slept  hard — it  took 
longer  to  rouse  them — but  on  and  on  she 


280        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

sped,  a  winged  Rhamnusia  awaking  the 
slothful  from  their  besotted  slumbers,  swift- 
footed,  ghostlike — 

"Awake,  awake,  be  vigilant!    Fire!    fire! 
fire!  danger  is  nigh!  " 


CHAPTER  XIX 

Very  early  Lola,  who  slept  lightly,  had 
been  awakened  by  a  curious  sound.  It  re 
verberated  in  her  half-wakened  mind  with  a 
throb  of  fear.  She  listened,  startled.  Some 
one  was  in  her  room!  She  sprang  from  her 
bed,  fumbled  for  a  match,  struck  it.  It 
flared,  illuminating  the  vast  apartment  from 
carpet  to  ceiling.  Its  spark  snapped,  and 
went  out  between  her  trembling  fingers. 
Nothing!  Yet  stealthily  creeping,  creeping, 
like  a  skulking  creature  crawling  along  the 
floor,  yes,  more  and  more  distinctly,  now  at 
hand,  almost  under  her  feet,  this  strange 
movement,  this  unearthly  warning.  What 
was  it? 

"Jock  —  Rip  —  Victor,"  she  whispered, 
coaxingly,  thinking  perhaps  a  miscreant 
mastiff  was  ramping,  ambushed,  behind  some 
convenient  screen,  and  shrank  from  banish 
ment.  But  to  her  call  came  no  response. 
And  now  as  she  stood  there,  paralyzed, 
motionless,  another  of  her  senses  started  to 
consciousness.  She  drew  quick  little  breaths 
281 


282        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

into  her  quivering  nostrils,  and  with  it  an 
odor  tingling,  peppery,  as  of  something 
charred  and  singed.  Hastily  enveloping 
herself  in  her  dressing-gown,  with  lighted 
candle  now,  she  hurried  across  the  parquet. 
What  was  that?  lazily  curling  up  close  to 
her  desk?  Twisting  its  serpent  way  between 
her  and  the  struggling  dawn,  indolent,  im 
palpable,  a  thin  white  vapor  rose  and  coiled, 
and  louder,  louder,  louder,  the  creeping 
grew,  shivered,  moaned  like  the  plaint  of 
some  imprisoned  being  panting  for  freedom. 
As  she  paused  an  instant  with  distended 
pupil,  the  vapor  widened,  darkened,  then 
flamed  with  a  sudden  reddish  hue.  To  her 
frightened  fancy  it  seemed  to  assume  de 
moniac  shapes,  hostile  and  maleficent. 

She  knew  then  that  her  room  was  on  fire. 
Her  first  impulse  was  toward  her  husband, 
her  second  to  her  child.  Which — which? 
She  craved  the  care  of  the  one,  the  other 
was  so  helpless!  Was  it  selfishness  which 
took  her  first  to  Mr.  Marston,  or  was  it  self- 
reproach  that  for  an  instant  she  had  wavered? 
Ah!  she  still  loved  him  best,  she  told  her 
self,  as  she  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm. 

Shaken  from  one  of  those  deep  slumbers 
which  drug  the  energies  and  will,  she  found 
it  hard  to  stir  him,  to  make  him  understand. 

"What?     What?" 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        283 

The  others  were  more  quickly  roused. 

Fenno  Asch,  easily  wakened,  was  the  last 
to  appear.  He  sent  for  his  valet,  ordered 
all  of  his  belongings  carefully  rescued  and 
packed,  made  a  comfortable  toilet — there  is 
a  tradition  that  he  shaved — after  which  he 
lit  a  cigarette,  and  leisurely  joined  de  Beau 
mont  on  the  lawn.  The  latter  was  arrayed 
in  a  pink  silk  bed-quilt,  and  was  holding 
helplessly  in  his  arms  a  bust  of  that  motherly 
person  who  is  called  the  Venus  de  Milo. 
He  had  swung  the  goddess  from  her  pedes 
tal  as  he  ran  from  his  apartment,  already 
filled  with  smoke  and  rocked  by  falling 
timbers. 

Mrs.  Ayrault  and  some  of  the  servants 
had  formed  a  fire  brigade  outside  with  Mr. 
Marston,  who,  in  pajamas,  a  top  hat,  and 
one  slipper,  was  handling  a  hose  with  praise 
worthy  persistence.  His  figure  loomed 
against  the  flames  which  issued  from  the 
ballroom. 

The  French  maid,  Augustine,  away  in  the 
further  wing  where  no  danger  for  at  least  an 
hour  could  reach  her,  pushed  by  the  force  of 
a  dramatic  nature,  was  hurling  her  garments 
out  of  the  window.  Gowns,  hats,  ribbon, 
petticoats,  fluttered  eastward,  lodged  in  trees 
and  adorned  neighboring  bushes,  while  she 
herself  wildly  gesticulated,  weeping  loudly. 


284        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

An  Irish  laundress  was  praying  in  the 
kitchen,  crossing  herself  in  invocation  to  all 
the  saints  and  to  the  Blessed  Virgin  Mother, 
while  her  young  assistant  was  pulling  at  her 
gown,  hysterically  imploring  her  to  flee  from 
impending  destruction. 

Pierre  Rose,  after  organizing  a  company 
of  the  fast-arriving  villagers,  bidding  them 
do  all  they  could  to  save  from  the  lower 
floors  their  valuable  contents — the  upper 
rooms  were  already  impassable — vanished. 

Bush,  early  on  the  premises,  worked  vali 
antly  with  Ackerman  and  the  farmhands. 
They  had  been  warned  by  the  alarm  bell. 
Francois,  the  maitre  d'hotel,  robed  in  a 
flowing  nightshirt,  was  dragging  pictures, 
silver,  books,  and  porcelains,  helter-skelter 
through  the  open  windows. 

"  Rose,  Rose,"  he  called,  missing  the 
young  Frenchman's  energetic  helpfulness. 
"Where  can  he  have  gone?" 

Leaping  over  obstacles,  gasping,  breath 
less,  Pierre  was  running  toward  the  cottage 
where  once  before  he  had  been  so  unwel 
come  a  visitor.  Its  door  was  half  ajar,  and 
now  it  did  not  close  upon  him,  but  gave 
way  to  his  nervous  hand.  In  the  narrow 
passage,  unwashed,  uncombed,  disconsolate, 
loudly  sobbing,  stood  .  .  .  Dottie. 

"What  is  the   matter,  little   one?"    said 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        285 

Pierre,  taking  hold  of  the  child's  ear,  and 
looking  about  him  furtively  while  he  drew 
her  against  his  knees.  Dottie,  in  spite  of 
her  mother's  protests,  entertained  a  secret 
admiration  for  Rose,  and  his  confectionery. 
She  now  explained  to  him  with  loud  weep 
ing  how  everybody  had  gone  to  the  fire — 
her  mother,  and  even  the  perfidious  Jane — 
but  that  she,  under  some  frightful  threat  of 
punishment,  had  been  forbidden  to  move, 
and  all  this  frantic  fun  going  on  and  she  left 
out! 

"Oh!  oh!  oh!"  she  shrieked,  at  the  mere 
thought  of  her  wrongs.  "  The  house  will  be 
all  burned  up,  and  I  '11  never — oh,  Mr. 
Pierre,  I  '11  never  see  even  the  pretty  big 
light.  I  can't!  Ma  said  I  was  n't  to  stand 
out  on  the  porch  even,  and — oh!  oh!  oh! 

Rose  mastered  his  temptation  to  shake 
her,  and  hearkened  for  a  moment  to  her 
ramblings. 

"  Look  here,  petite,"  he  said  to  her, 
"  where  is  your  mother?  " 

Dottie  assured  him  that  she  did  not  know. 

"  Is  she  over  at  the  big  house?  " 

She  had  gone  out,  and  that  was  all  her 
daughter  could  communicate. 

"  Now,  cherie,"  said  Rose,  quickly,  "where 
is  your  mother's  room?" 

The  child,  puzzled,  but  somewhat  pacified 


286        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

by  Rose's  exciting  presence,  pointed  up  the 
narrow  stairs. 

""Petite,"  said  the  chef  in  a  low  voice, 
"  will  you  go  upstairs  and  get  me  a  pair  of 
your  mother's  boots?  " 

"Did  ma  send  for  them?"  asked  Dottie, 
eying  him  suspiciously. 

"  Bless  me,  yes,"  said  Pierre.  "  She  's 
got  her  feet  wet  with  the  pumps." 

"  You  said  you  had  n't  seen  my  ma,"  said 
Dottie  with  astuteness. 

"Blank  the  little  Yankee,"  thought 
Pierre.  "  She  might  be  &Juge  d 'instruction ." 

"  You  misunderstood  me,  little  dear."  He 
smiled,  while  inwardly  consigning  Dottie 
and  her  family  to  ten  thousand  devils  to 
destroy.  "  Your  mother  sent  me  for  her 
boots.  I  was  only  joking." 

"If  I  get  the  boots  will  you  ask  her  if  I 
can  come  out  and  see  the  fire?"  said  the 
commercial  Dottie. 

"Why  of  course  I  will.  I  will  come  back 
in  a  few  moments  with  her  permission  to 
bring  you." 

"  Hang  it,  if  I  don't  throw  the  little  bag 
gage  in  and  broil  her,"  thought  the  French 
man,  at  the  end  of  his  indulgence. 

Slowly,  and  looking  backward  at  him,  as 
if  to  make  sure  the  contract  was  not  a 
cheat  and  lie,  Dottie  brought  him  a  pair  of 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        287 

her  mother's  boots,  still  dusty  with  sand, 
and  delivered  them  to  him  from  her  little 
brown  hands.  Pierre  took  and  eyed  them 
with  a  peculiar  gleam  in  his  black  eyes.  He 
concealed  one  of  them  under  his  coat  as  he 
walked  away,  tossing  the  other  from  him 
over  the  hedge. 

"One  is  enough,"  he  said  audibly. 

A  little  later  he  could  be  seen  kneeling 
upon  the  gravel  which  stretched  under  his 
windows,  first  here,  then  there.  Ah!  here, 
wound  about  a  tree-trunk,  in  the  wind  some 
thing  yellow  tossed  and  flapped.  Rose  gave 
vent  to  a  cry  of  triumph  when  he  had  pulled 
a  handful  of  straw  from  about  a  gnarled 
root.  Yes,  again  he  kneeled,  and  by-and-by 
uttered  another  stifled  exclamation.  He  had 
found  what  he  sought!  Quickly  Beth's 
boot  sprang  from  its  hiding-place;  it  fitted, 
heel  and  toe,  width  and  length,  into  a  foot 
print  which,  with  several  others  of  like  size 
and  shape,  was  plainly  marked  on  the  soft 
soil.  Pierre  Rose  looked  grave  when  he 
arose  from  his  recumbent  attitude. 

Fenno  Asch,  faultlessly  dressed,  mean 
dered  up  to  Lola,  where  she  stood  with 
Archie  and  his  nurses,  below  the  terraces, 
watching  the  burning  of  her  home.  She 
met  him  with  the  chill  and  cutting  light  of  a 
pale  glance  from  under  haughty  eyelids 


288        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

With  murmured  words  she  could  not  catch, 
he  turned  on  his  heel  and  left  her  abruptly. 

Mr.  Isham  had  performed  prodigies  in 
saving  articles  of  value.  The  Count,  while 
less  efficient,  and  impeded  by  his  bed-quilt, 
had  fought  the  fire-god  with  equal  bravery, 
Asch  alone  saved  .  .  .  himself  and  his 
effects.  Lola,  revolted,  inwardly  vowed  he 
had  slept  his  last  sleep  under  a  roof  of  hers. 

The  flames,  shooting  forth  in  ever-increas 
ing  volume  from  the  consuming  pile,  now 
reached  the  portico.  Their  red  tongues 
played  about  an  ornament,  a  bit  of  sculp 
tured  carving  above  the  columns.  Hit  by  a 
piece  of  loosened  masonry,  its  graceful 
efflorescence  wavered  a  moment,  then  fell 
with  a  crash,  its  hot  debris  scattering  their 
ruins  upon  the  path.  A  curious  reckless 
ness  seemed  suddenly  to  inundate  Mrs. 
Marston's  mind,  almost  a  sense  of  pleasure. 

"  See,  Archie,  see,"  she  said  to  her  son; 
"  now  the  columns  will  give  way.  Ah!  there 
is  mamma's  room. all  fallen  in.  See,  Archie, 
see!  And  my  piano,  that  must  be  gone. 
Ah,  Augustine!  Where  are  my  jewels?  In 
their  case?  My  pearls  and  opal  coronet? 
And  my  coats — the  sable  one — that  too? 
Did  it  hang  in  the  vestibule?  And  my  poor 
little  bird?  Is  that  dead?  Did  they  save 
that,  do  you  think? 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        289 

She  ran  hither  and  thither,  fascinated. 
The  sparks  fell  on  her  hair.  She  wished 
that  she  had  more  to  burn,  more  to  throw 
upon  the  general  pyre,  that  she  might  bring 
to  this  great  conflagration  all  her  possessions. 
She  tore  a  scarf  from  off  her  neck,  and  cast 
it  on  the  wind,  and  watched  it  toss  against 
the  crumbling  walls  and  feebly  scorch  itself 
to  dust.  Her  spirit  felt  detached  from  all 
material  things.  The  intoxication  of  their 
destruction  was  in  her  veins. 

The  villagers  had  grown  a  trifle  weary; 
they  were  piling  the  saved  things  into  farm- 
wagons  and  driving  them  across  the  lawn  to 
the  "Colony."  The  wine  cellar  had  been 
sacked.  Some  of  the  men  waxed  hilarious, 
Two  were  quite  drunk,  quarrelsome,  noisy. 
Others  exchanged  witticisms  as  they  passed 
each  other  with  their  self-imposed  freight. 
They  forced  themselves  to  gravity  only 
when  they  met  the  master,  or  cried  "hist" 
when  they  fancied  one  of  "the  family"  re 
marked  their  cheerfulness.  Sympathy  is  fa 
tiguing.  Consternation  gave  place  to  indif 
ference.  There  was  almost  a  note  as  of  orgy 
in  the  air,  and  all  the  while  the  great  and  splen 
did  flame  swept  across  the  desolate  country, 
bearing  down  everything  in  its  track. 

It  was  just  then  that  "  Crazy  Jim  "  came 
down  upon  the  scene. 


290        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

What  village,  or  what  county,  but  has  its 
"Crazy  Jim?"  He  sought  shelter  and  a 
meal  now  and  then  in  the  poorhouse,  but 
most  of  his  days  and  nights  were  spent  upon 
the  roads,  singing  or  cursing,  as  the  mood  of 
his  whisky  was  mild  or  virulent.  To-day  he 
was  in  glee.  His  peaked  hat  all  awry,  his 
face  aglow.  How  did  he  get  into  the  house? 
How  scale  the  stairs?  No  one  could  tell. 
They  saw  at  the  window  his  furfuraceous 
visage  lighted  up  with  exultation,  his  drool 
ing  mouth  distended  by  wild  laughter.  He 
began  to  throw  things  down,  mattresses,  pil 
lows,  tables,  chairs. 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!" 

Here  was  a  costly  china  vase.  He  cast  it 
on  the  sward.  It  struck  and  broke.  He 
clapped  his  hands  in  rapture. 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!" 

The  emancipation  of  his  cowed  nature 
whipped  his  blood  to  frenzy!  He  would 
have  liked  to  bray  and  brag  of  his  impor 
tance  and  his  services.  Mrs.  Marston  had 
been  kind  to  him.  He  was  glad  he  had  ar 
rived  in  time.  But  soon  they  who  were 
watching  saw  there  was  no  retreat  for  Jim. 
Behind  him  swelled  the  dense,  black  pall, 
before  him — death.  Well,  well,  why  not? 
What  was  his  life  worth?  His  mean  and 
cowardly  and  driveling  life? 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        291 

"  My  God!  my  God!  "  cried  Lola.  "  He 
is  doomed!  He  is  lost!  O,  God,  have 
mercy  on  his  soul!  Poor  Jim!  Poor  Jim!  " 

The  women  who  surrounded  her,  Mrs. 
Fesser,  Mrs.  Opdyke,  Mrs.  Bryan,  Mrs. 
Pullen,  joined  in  lament  and  outcry. 

Pierre  Rose  heard.  In  a  moment  he 
placed  the  saving  ladder.  Like  a  cat,  he 
sprang  from  rung  to  rung,  seized  the  mad 
man  by  the  beard,  stunned  his  struggles  with 
a  blow,  and  on  his  shoulders  bore  him  down 
to  safety. 

It  was  just  then  that  Floribel,  fresh  from 
her  morning  bath,  in  her  best  hat  and  Sun 
day  jacket,  with  sorrowing  eyes  and  sweet 
condolence,  joined  Mrs.  Marston's  group. 
Rose,  surrounded  by  the  lauding  women, 
was  blowing  on  his  blackened  hands.  Their 
eyes  met. 


CHAPTER  XX 

Piled  up  with  wreckage,  the  "Colony" 
presented,  some  hours  later,  an  odd  appear 
ance.  In  its  tiny  sitting-room  Lola  was  rest 
ing,  sipping  some  tea  with  little  Archie  and 
Mrs.  Ayrault.  The  other  guests  had  all  de 
parted  in  various  trains,  and  thus  relieved 
her  of  their  presence.  She  and  Arden  were 
discussing  the  fire,  but  with  a  certain  languor, 
as  a  thing  long  ended,  already  relegated  to 
the  past. 

In  an  office  across  the  hall  three  men 
were  closeted.  They  were  Pierre  Rose,  Mr. 
Marston,  and  the  sheriff.  Pierre's  hands 
were  bandaged.  Mr.  Marston  was  flushed 
at  the  cheek-bones,  and  appeared  agitated. 
The  sheriff  was  sucking  a  pipe,  and  now  and 
then  shooting  a  stream  of  brown  liquid  from 
between  his  teeth.  Sometimes  this  struck 
the  hearth  at  which  it  was  aimed,  and  some 
times  it  did  not. 

"  I  guess,"  he  was  saying,  "the  testimony 
is  fairly  conclusive  if  Mr.  Rose  is  willing  to 
take  his  oath." 

292 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        293 

"What  period  of  time,"  asked  Mr.  Mars- 
ton,  "  is  included  in  the  night  season?  " 

"Well,  I  guess  between  the  sun-setting 
and  the  sun-rising,"  said  the  sheriff,  scratch 
ing  his  head. 

"  It  was  two  o'clock.  I  had  a  toothache. 
I  got  up.  I  looked  at  my  watch,"  said  Pierre. 

"  If  you  can  prove  a  motive  .   .  ." 

"It  seems  difficult,"  said  Mr.  Marston. 

"  In  the  day  time,  second  degree.  First 
degree  is  imprisonment  for  term  not  less 
than  fifteen  years;  second,  not  more  than 
ten;  third  degree,  seven  years.  Just  had  a 
case  up  on  Mount  Ararat,  third  degree.  Man 
put  up  for  seven  years,  if  I  remember." 

"As  I  understand,  it  is  the  malicious  de 
struction  of  any  building,  house,  or  other 
institution  capable  of  affording  shelter  to 
human  beings." 

"  Ex-actly,"  said  the  sheriff,  dividing  his 
assent  by  a  hyphen  of  ejected  saliva. 

"  The  boot  fitted  into  the  footprint.  I  saw 
the  straw  in  her  arms — later  around  on 
Madame's  side,  I  found  some  more  of  it, 
which  the  wind  had  carried  to  the  terrace. 
She  set  it  under  the  wooden  rail.  The  tem 
pest  it  was  high,"  said  Pierre. 

"Did  not  arson  bear  the  death  penalty 
formerly?"  said  Mr.  Marston,  with  blood  in 
his  eye. 


294       EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

"  Now  I  can't  say  but  it  did — sometime 
back,"  said  the  sheriff.  "  It 's  a  common- 
law  felony,  that 's  a  fact,  but  nowadays  it 's 
dealt  with  more  mildly." 

"  Hanging  is  too  good  for  such  creatures," 
said  Mr.  Marston.  "They  ought  to  be  .  .  ." 

"  If  she  can't  prove  an  alibi,  and  you  pros 
ecute,  I  guess  it  '11  go  hard  with  her." 

"What  looks  to  me  decisive  is  her  disap 
pearance — this  trumped-up  summons  to 
Pontifex,  their  old  home,  just  at  the  hour  of 
the  fire,  and  her  departure  while  it  was  in 
progress,  professedly  to  her  aunt's  sick-bed; 
her  forsaking  Mrs.  Marston  and  her  duties 
at  such  a  sad  moment.  I  have  an  assurance 
from  the  telegraph  operator  that  no  telegram 
was  received." 

"  I  guess  she  warn't  very  smart, "said  the 
sheriff.  "  Do  you  suspect  anybody  on  the 
premises  of  complicity?  Husband?  Eh? 
They  ain't  ever  smart  at  their  first  offense; 
get  flustered.  What  beats  me  is  what  they 
had  to  gain  .  .  .  hem  .  .  .  hem." 

"Non,  Monsieur,  non,  -non"  said  Rose,  with 
f  ervo  r .  "  Monsieur  Bush  est  mi  honnete  homme. ' ' 

"What  does  he  say?  Eh?  My  French 
is  getting  rusty,"  chuckled  the  sheriff.  "  I 
never  was  much  on  foreign  tongues." 

"  He  believes  in  Bush's  honesty,  integrity, 
and  I  must  say,"  said  Mr.  Marston,  "  I  do 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART       295 

myself.  Mrs.  Marston  thinks  highly  of 
him." 

"  Been  informed?  " 

"  Not  yet,  poor  wretch,"  said  Mr.  Mars- 
ton,  uneasily.  "  Not  yet.  We  must  pre 
pare  our  case." 

"  Guess  you  'd  better  trot  him  around 
here,"  said  the  sheriff. 

"  Will  you  break  it  to  him?" 

"  I  shan't  beat  around  the  bush,  if  that 's 
what  you  mean.  I  guess  he  's  got  to  hear 
the  truth,  and  the  sooner  it 's  out  the  better 
for  all  parties  concerned." 

"  There  's  no  hurry." 

"Well  now,  I  guess  there  is,"  said  the 
sheriff.  "We  don't  want  no  grass  growin' 
under  our  feet.  If  we  can  catch  him  in  his 
talk  it  may  make  things  lively.  Jog  'em  up 
a  little.  This  ain't  the  first  little  operation 
of  the  kind  I  've  performed  this  year.  I 
guess  I  can  stand  it  if  he  can."  And  the 
sheriff  chuckled  again. 

It  was  then  that  Mr.  Marston  went  and 
called  his  wife,  and  that  she  was  initiated 
into  the  pregnant  secrets  of  the  conclave. 

Unknowing  of  the  storms  which  had  rav 
aged  Elizabeth's  heart  and  brain,  the  whole 
thing  was  to  her  incredible.  There  are 
characters  which  must  be  studied  in  en 
tirety  to  be  understood.  Fragmentary 


296       EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

knowledge  of  them  is  insufficient.  The  lit 
tle  comprehension  she  had  gained  of  Mrs. 
Bush's  nature  hardly  accounted  for  the 
transformation  of  a  fretful  scold  into  a  men 
tally  disturbed  and  desperate  pyromaniac. 
The  abrupt  cataclysm  which  could  hurl  Beth 
to  such  depths  of  infamy  appeared  apocry 
phal,  a  fairy  tale.  The  thought  of  Joseph 
filled  her  with  apprehension  and  distress, 
and  it  was  tearfully  she  begged  her  husband 
to  temper,  as  far  as  in  him  lay,  to  the  man's 
simple,  loyal  soul,  the  horrid  blow  that  must 
be  dealt  to  him. 

Joe  was  washing  his  hands  and  face,  and 
preparing  to  rest  from  his  labors  when  he 
received  a  summons  about  nine  o'clock  that 
his  presence  was  desired  at  the  Colony.  He 
had  worked  very  hard  all  of  the  day  with 
the  determination  to  help  his  employers  to 
the  uttermost.  He  had  himself  put  Dottie 
to  bed,  and  was  preparing  to  seek  his  own 
lonely  couch.  His  wife's  sudden  incompre 
hensible  departure  filled  him  with  surprise 
and  with  consternation,  and  if  no  glimmer 
of  the  truth  dawned  upon  his  mind  it  was 
restless  and  disquieted  enough  to  be  pre 
pared  for  shock. 

Waking  in  the  night  he  had  missed  her 
from  his  side.  He  had  dozed,  and  when 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART       297 

she  returned  she  complained  of  indisposi 
tion,  of  sleeplessness,  and  had  told  him 
that  she  had  been  resting  in  the  spare  room. 
As  to  the  occurrences  of  the  morning,  Jane's 
and  Dottie's  accounts  did  not  seem  to  agree. 
Soon  after  he  reached  the  scene  of  calamity 
the  former  had  brought  him  a  verbal  mes 
sage  from  his  wife  to  the  effect  that  she  had 
but  five  minutes  wherein  to  reach  the  stage 
from  Paradise  to  the  railway  station,  that 
she  has  received  a  call  to  her  aunt's  at  Pon- 
tifex  where  illness  made  her  presence  im 
perative,  that  she  must  catch  the  first  train 
cityward,  and  feared  delay  should  she  go  to 
say  good-bye  to  him  in  person.  Mrs.  Bush  had 
further  given  Jane  directions  as  to  the  men's 
supper  and  as  to  keys.  When  questioned  as  to 
how  and  when  the  Pontifex  summons  had  ar 
rived,  Jane  became  flurried,  but  she  was  posi 
tive  that  Mrs.  Bush  had  worn  her  traveling 
dress,  had  taken  a  small  handbag  and  some 
money,  and  had  walked  away  toward  the 
stage  stables.  These  minor  details  had  es 
caped  the  eye  of  the  only  daughter  of  the 
house  of  Bush.  To  her  nothing  had  been 
confided.  She  was  told  to  be  a  good  girl  and 
stop  in  the  house,  and  she  supposed  her 
mamma  was  going  over  to  the  big  house  to 
see  it  burn,  Filled  with  the  woe  of  her  own 
disappointment,  Dottie  had  seen  no  hand- 


298        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

bag,  no  money,  and  even  her  mother's  cos 
tume  left  but  a  dim  impression.  Yet  she 
thought  she  wore  her  dark  dress.  Later, 
Dickson,  the  stage  driver,  who  lounged 
over  to  hear  the  news,  admitted  having  con 
veyed  Mrs.  Bush  to  the  station,  and  having 
seen  her  board  the  early  train.  With  his 
tongue  in  his  cheek,  Joseph  laboriously 
penned  a  postal  to  his  wife — he  feared  tele 
grams  as  sure  portents  of  death — and  sent  it 
to  the  afternoon  mail  by  the  shepherd  lad. 
Queries  as  to  the  particulars  of  her  strange 
flight,  as  to  her  aunt's  condition,  and  ac 
counts  of  the  fire  were  compressed  into  the 
limited  space  in  disconnected  phrases.  To 
doubt  her  truth  never  crossed  his  brain,  but 
he  felt  that  her  methods  had  been  unusual 
and  upsetting.  His  heart,  however,  was  so 
full  of  sympathy  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Marston, 
the  sight  of  the  smoking  ruins  of  their  home 
so  pained  him  that  he  was  fain  in  their  mis 
fortune  to  forget  his  own  annoyance.  He 
thought  Elizabeth  should  not  have  left  in 
such  a  crisis,  and  certainly  not  without  a  word 
with  her  husband,  but  he  told  himself  in  a 
future  hour  all  would  be  explained.  Her 
aunt  had  been  a  mother  to  her;  she  owed 
her  duty. 

At  Mr.  Marston's  summons  he  now  hastily 
wiped  his  hands,   and,   instead  of  his   bed, 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART       299 

sought  the  Colony.  The  sheriff,  absent  for 
several  hours,  had  now  returned  by  appoint 
ment.  He  was  already  in  Mr.  Marston's 
office.  It  took  a  long  while  to  make  the 
unfortunate  man  understand  his  position, 
and  the  role  his  wife  was  supposed  to  have 
played.  Perhaps  Mr.  Marston  would  have 
been  more  than  human  had  not  the  words 
felony,  fifteen  years  of  prison,  death  penalty, 
rolled  over  his  tongue  with  a  certain  unction, 
but  it  took  time  before  Joe  comprehended 
that  his  wife  was  accused  of  arson,  and  he 
was  expected  to  tell  what  he  knew.  When  he 
fully  realized  that  he  must  defend  her,  and 
perhaps  himself,  from  so  heinous  and  terri 
ble  a  charge,  the  expression  of  his  face  be 
came  so  pitiable  that  Pierre  Rose  instantly 
repented  of  his  part  in  the  affair,  that  Mr. 
Marston  grew  fidgety,  and  even  the  sheriff 
looked  uncomfortable.  He  was  asked  point- 
blank  if  Mrs.  Bush  had  gone  out  in  the 
night,  and  he  said  "yes,"  and  then  contra 
dicted  himself  and  said  "  no,"  and  finally 
took  refuge  in  silence.  Then  he  asked, 
looking  about  helplessly,  that  a  lawyer 
might  be  sent  for,  for  him  to  consult  with. 

"  You  can  have  all  the  lawyers  you  want, 
Mr.  Bush,  when  your  case  comes  up,"  said 
the  sheriff,  kindly.  "This  is  only  a  pre 
liminary  unofficial  kind  of  a  chat  among 


300       EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

friends,  and  they  ain't  going  to  take  any  un 
due  advantage  of  you." 

"  You  don't  expect  a  man  to  testify 
against  his  wife,  and  the  mother  of  his  little 
one?"  asked  Joe,  huskily.  "  Mebbe  there  's 
them  as  thinks  they  has  cause  to  hate  her, 
as  bears  a  grudge,  '11  do  it  quick  enough." 
Pierre  winced. 

"Justice  will  be  done,"  said  Mr.  Marston, 
severely. 

"  And  I  think,"  went  on  Joe,  looking  at 
Pierre,  "  that  them  as  tries  to  hurt  an  inno 
cent  woman  and  a  little  child  ain't  much  of 
men  either — not  according  to  my  lights. 
But  Satan  knows  his  children,"  he  added, 
under  his  breath,  "  and  '11  claim  'em  all  in 
his  own  good  time." 

"  Of  course,  Mr.  Bush,  you  are  perfectly 
confident  of  Mrs.  Bush's  innocence,"  said 
the  sheriff,  blandly.  "  You  understand,  we 
ain't  pressing  you  to  change  your  opinion, 
which  may  be  well  founded.  We  have  got 
two  witnesses  and  the  evidence  of  the  foot 
prints.  One  of  the  farm  hands  saw  Mrs. 
Bush  out  on  the  path  between  the  dwelling- 
house  and  cottage  at  about  three  A.  M.  His 
name  is  Thomas  Shannon.  He  sleeps  over 
the  barn,  I  'm  told.  He  rose  to  shut  his 
window  from  the  storm." 

The  three  men   put  their  heads  together 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART       301 

and  whispered.  Like  a  creature  at  bay  Joe 
looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  his  perse 
cutors,  for  such  they  seemed  to  his  distorted 
fancy.  Their  net  was  drawing  round  him. 
Unflinching  as  he  was  in  rectitude,  he  had 
always  been  slow  to  believe  evil  of  others, 
but  now  the  mists  began  to  scatter.  Perci- 
val  Oakes,  Elizabeth,  their  strange  talks,  her 
disaffections,  her  suppressed  angers,  her 
almost  morbid  self-control — were  these  the 
early  signs  of  madness?  The  madness  that 
had  killed  her  father?  His  head  fell  for 
ward  on  his  breast,  and  he  remained  plunged 
in  profound  reflection.  By-and-by,  when  the 
three  had  done  their  talk,  as  if  some  sudden 
resolve  possessed  him,  he  arose  and  stood 
before  them,  pointing  upward  with  one  hand 
as  if  to  command  attention. 

"  I  have  to  ask  of  these  present,"  he  said, 
solemnly,  "  a  favor.  I  have  a  confession  to 
make,  but  I  will  make  it  to  Miss  Marston, 
and  I  ask  to  see  her  alone." 

Mr.  Marston  thought  Mrs.  Marston  had 
gone  to  her  much-needed  rest,  and  could 
not  be  disturbed  at  present. 

"  I  can  wait  till  morning,"  said  Joe,  "but 
if  it  were  so  as  she  ain't  retired  I  'd  like  a 
word  with  Miss  Marston  to-night." 

Lola  expressed  herself  willing  to  receive 
him  upstairs,  in  the  room  where  she  was  ly- 


302       EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

ing  on  a  lounge  while  the  maids  prepared  a 
bed  for  her.  She  motioned  to  them  to  leave 
her  and  Bush  alone  when  he  had  stumbled 
up  the  stairs.  She  tried  to  speak  cheerfully 
to  him,  but  the  words  died  on  her  lips  when 
a  lamp  had  been  found  and  she  saw  the 
man's  face.  It  was  livid.  His  eyes'  habit 
ual  melancholy  had  deepened  into  anguish. 

"  My  poor  Joseph,"  she  murmured,  half 
inaudible. 

He  came  up  to  where  she  lay,  still  hold 
ing  his  battered  straw  hat  between  his  fin 
gers,  and  he,  too,  tried  to  speak,  but  could 
not.  She  was  shaken  by  the  pathos  of  his 
lonely  figure. 

"  My  poor  Bush,"  she  repeated.  "  This 
is  indeed  terrible,  but  remember  we  exoner 
ate  you  entirely." 

"  I  guess  when  ye  know  the  truth  it  ain't 
me  as  ye  '11  exon'rate."  He  repeated  her 
word.  "  Can  I  speak  with  ye  for  a  mo 
ment?  "  As  she  looked  up  astonished:  "  I 
had  n't  never  been  with  such  folks  as  you 
was,  Miss  Marston,  and  I  wan't  used  to  their 
ways.  In  Pontifex  we  was  all  alike,  and 
there  warn't  no  lookin*  up  or  down,  but  all 
of  us  equal  and  like  one  big  family.  Here 
it  was  different.  Mr.  Marston,  he  found 
great  fault  with  me,  and  I  got  riled.  He 
accused  me  and  my  folks  of  things  we  never 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        303 

thought  was  wrong,  and  what  with  one  thing 
or  another  the  devil  got  into  my  soul. 
P'raps  I  got  covetous.  I  was  angered  and 
sore,  and,  Miss  Marston,  I — 'twan't  my 
Elizabeth  that  plotted  the  destruction  of 
your  beautiful  home.  She  thought  too 
much  of  ye.  She  never  was  tired  of  talking 
of  ye  before  ever  she  set  eyes  on  ye.  Why, 
she  was  that  set  on  coming  to  live  in  this 
place  I  had  to  give  in  for  peace's  sake.  I 
say  " — he  again  raised  his  arm  above  his 
head  impressively — "  she  's  innocent.  I 
come  to  confess  my  guilt.  I  done  it!  I  done 
it!  I  done  it!  As  God  hears  me,  Miss  Mar 
ston,  and  you  hope  for  His  forgiveness  in 
the  world  we  're  all  going  to,  my  Elizabeth  fs 
innocent.  I  done  it!  " 

The  last  word  rang  out  wildly  through  the 
silent  room.  Lola  had  listened  earnestly  to 
these  incoherent  utterances,  to  this  resolve  to 
suffer  vicariously  for  her  for  whom  it  now  was 
plain  the  man  would  willingly  give  his  life. 
Yet  those  truth-loving  lips  were  as  if  shriv 
eled  with  the  lie  they  told.  They  had  grown 
pale  and  harsh,  and  his  tongue  was  parched 
and  dry  in  the  ecstasy  of  his  excitement. 

"Why  do  you  tell  me  this?  "said  Lola, 
almost  sternly. 

"  The  first  time  ever  I  seen  ye,  Miss  Mar 
ston,  when  my  wife  asked  me  if  you  was  a 


304       EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

reg'lar  beauty,  I  told  her  there  was  hand 
somer  women,  p'raps,  but  yours  was  the 
sweetest  face  ever  I  looked  on.  So,  some 
how,  to-night,  in  my  misery,  I  thought  may 
be  it  would  be  easy  to  ...  to  ...  tell  it  all 
.  .  .  ask  ye  .  .  .  "  He  broke  down  then 
and  fell  into  a  chair,  sobbing,  beating  the 
air  impotently  with  outstretched  hands. 

In  a  moment  they  were  imprisoned  fast 
in  Lola's  slender  ones,  their  rough  palms 
pressed  in  passionate  pity  upon  her  breast. 
As  she  held  them  close,  and  bent  over  them, 
all  the  nobility  of  his  ignorant  hope,  of  his 
futile  desire  to  shield  the  wretched  woman 
who  was  to-day,  not  only  the  mother  of  his 
child,  but  a  great  criminal,  swept  her  soul, 
and  as  upon  the  perfumed  sweetness  of  her 
white  bosom  his  head  rested,  for  a  moment, 
all  its  weight  of  weariness  and  sorrow,  Lola 
cried  out  to  him,  throwing  one  arm  across 
his  shuddering  shoulders,  cried  out  across  the 
waste  of  life — "  Oh,  my  brother!  " 

Outside  the  night  crept  on  apace.  It  en 
veloped  alike  the  toad  which  burrows  earth 
ward,  the  bat  which  swirls  and  swoops  in  the 
dark,  the  owl  which  hoots  in  the  tree,  and 
the  bird  which  sings  to  the  stars.  It  fell 
over  the  land,  and  inclosed  it  tenderly; 
ardent,  sombre,  full  of  dreams. 


CHAPTER   XXI 

Mr.  Isham  stood  at  his  easel,  He  was 
finishing  May  Plunkett's  portrait.  He  was 
dissatisfied.  The  hour  of  travail  with  the 
artist  is  his  hour  of  joy.  His  delivery  that 
of  discouragement.  The  true  artist  is  an 
exile.  He  sighs  for  something  lost,  or  left 
behind,  promised  but  never  reached,  toward 
which  he  wanders  with  bleeding  feet;  and 
sometimes  he  would  fain  lie  down  in  the 
desert,  curse  God  and  die. 

A  knock  at  his  door  roused  him  from 
unpleasant  contemplation.  Usually  impa 
tient  of  interruption,  he  hailed  this  morning 
anything  which  would  distract  him  from  his 
present  mood. 

"  I  am  getting  old,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"  My  day  is  over."  And  a  pang  unknown 
before  to  his  philosophy  left  its  sting  in  his 
heart.  And  this  day,  which  was  over,  had 
it  really  ever  dawned?  Perhaps  not.  He  was 
inclined  to  think  he  had  never  amounted  to 
much.  He  would  have  done  better  to  have 
been  a  banker's  clerk  as  his  father  had 

305 


306       EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

wished,  or  an  engineer.  He  might  by  this 
time  have  become  one  of  those  men  who  in 
England  are  Prime  Ministers,  and  in  the 
United  States  bank  presidents  or  railroad 
"  magnates." 

"  I  should  at  least  have  had  some  money," 
he  grumbled,  but  his  grumbling  to-day  had 
in  it  a  note  of  suffering.  "  No,  probably  I 
should  not.  I  'm  incidental.  At  best  a  re 
spectable  mediocrity.  I  should  have  re 
mained  a  clerk  on  two  thousand  a  year.  To 
dirty  canvas  was  my  only  alternative,  but 
even  that  was  not  a  vocation.  Lemuel 
Isham,  make  no  mistakes." 

11  Come  in." 

The  door  swung  open.  A  young  man  en 
tered.  There  was  a  certain  assurance  in  his 
manner.  If  this  young  man  had  a  vocation, 
one  felt  sure  he  would  recognize  it.  Possi 
bly  might  mistake  instincts  for  inspirations, 
tendencies  for  talents,  tastes  for  commands 
direct  from  heaven. 

"Where  have  I  seen  this  gentlemanly, 
shabby,  clever-looking  chap  before?" 
thought  Mr.  Isham,  puckering  his  eyebrows, 
and  glaring  at  the  intruder  with  a  snort, 
over  his  spectacles. 

"  Your  face  is  familiar,"  he  said.  "Where 
have  I  seen  you  before?  I  've  got  a  poor 
memory  for  names." 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        307 

"  My  name  is  Oakes." 

"  Eh?     Eh?     Oakes,  did  you  say?  " 

"  I  doubt,  sir,  if  you  ever  saw  me  before 
in  your  life,  but  I  've  seen  you  a  great  many 
times." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Oakes,  I  'm  glad  to  meet  you. 
How  can  I  serve  you?  Sit  down,  sit  down." 

"  I  've  seen  you  many  times,  and  what  's 
more  I  know  your  works.  As  I  can  respect 
talent  when  I  find  it,  you  will  pardon  me 
for  telling  you  that  of  the  crowd  who  visited 
Marston  Terrace  you  always  seemed  to  me 
the  only  person  of  the  whole  gang  worth 
looking  at  twice." 

"  Humph!  "  said  Mr.  Isham. 

The  slightly  patronizing  tone  of  his  un 
known  visitor,  with  the  conceit  which  deems 
its  opinion  of  value,  struck  the  old  gentle 
man  as  distinctly  diverting. 

"  You  probably  never  saw  or  heard  of  me, 
although  I  stood  sometimes  in  the  mud 
when  you  splashed  by  with  Marston  and  his 
friends." 

"Indeed!  Well,  I  don't  know  about 
splashing  you.  I  always  remark  the  side  of 
the  street  we  are  not  on  looks  the  cleanest, 
but  when  we  have  crossed  over  it 's  all  about 
the  same.  But. I  have  seen  your  face,  and 
now  I  remember  your  name.  Were  not  you 
the  schoolmaster  in  Paradise?" 


308       EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

"  I  was." 

"  I  have  heard  of  you,  and  I  can  tell  you 
exactly  now  what  I  heard." 

Mr.  Oakes  laughed  a  trifle  unpleasantly. 
"  That  I  was  a  revolutionist,  who  frightened 
all  the  old  women?  " 

"  Not  at  all!     That  you  were  a  fool." 

"You  're  frank,  at  least." 

"  Thanks.  I  can  lie  as  well  as  anybody 
when  it 's  necessary,  but  it  is  a  bad  habit  and 
softens  the  brain." 

"  And  I  guess  yours  is  n't  soft  yet." 

"  My  brain  is  n't  worth  discussing,  par 
ticularly  in  the  morning  when,  as  you  see, 
I  'm  busy.  Did  you  ever  pass  this  young 
lady,  eh?  Did  she  ever  splash  you  in  the 
...  er  ...  gang?  Step  up  here,  Mr. 
Oakes,  and  tell  me  what 's  the  matter  with 
her,  eh?"  He  put  his  hand  upon  Oakes's 
arm  and  twisted  him  to  a  stand  before  the 
easel  whereon  Miss  Plunkett  faintly  smiled. 
Oakes's  gray  eyes  dwelt  intently  on  the 
picture. 

"  It 's  the  form  and  features  of  a  girl  I  've 
often  seen,  but  you  have  given  her,  Mr. 
Isham,  the  soul  of  another  woman." 

"  Eh?  Eh?  What  did  you  say?  What 
did  you  say?  Speak  louder.  I  'm  a  little 
deaf,"  said  Mr.  Isham,  gruffly. 

"I    think   you   heard    me,"   said   Oakes. 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        309 

"  Perhaps  the  other  lady  occupied  your 
mind.  The  form,  the  features,  the  high  col 
oring  are  the  girl's — I  don't  know  her  name 
— the  eyes  are  Mrs.  Marston's." 

"  Damn  it!  "  muttered  Mr.  Isham.  "  But 
I  believe  the  fellow's  right.  The  fair  Lola 
had  got  hold  of  me  and  bedeviled  me  with 
her  sweet  witcheries." 

"  Do  you  know  Mrs.  Marston?  "  he  asked, 
abruptly.  There  was  a  moment's  silence. 

"  No,"  said  Oakes.  "  I  do  not  know 
her."  He  could  not  have  explained  the 
impulse,  born  no  doubt  of  some  refined 
ancestry,  which  made  him  disclaim  acquain 
tance  with  the  mistress  of  Marston  Terrace. 
The  fine  soul  of  the  old  artist  perhaps 
dimly  understood  his  delicacy.  He  had 
heard  of  Oakes,  and  now  recalled  that  Mrs. 
Marston  had  spoken  of  him  kindly,  and 
had  even  told  him  some  story  of  an  en 
counter  with  the  young  man  in  a  wood  on 
a  night  of  storm. 

"  How  can  I  serve  you?  "  he  now  repeated 
more  courteously.  "  Pray  sit  down,  sit 
down,"  and  blowing  his  nose,  and  wheezing, 
he  pushed  a  stool  fussily  forward,  and  seated 
himself  upon  another.  Lounging  was  not  a 
rule  of  his  atelier. 

"  Plague  on  my  bronchitis!  "  he  said  under 
his  breath. 


3io       EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

Oakes  had  a  roll  of  papers  under  his  arm, 
and  produced  them. 

"  I  called  upon  you  this  morning,  Mr. 
Isham,  for  two  reasons.  The  first  was  to 
ask  you  some  particulars  of  the  Marstons' 
fire.  The  second,  to  speak  about  a  personal 
matter.  First,  then,  will  you  tell  me — I  can 
gather  nothing  from  the  newspapers — if  Mrs. 
Marston  and  her  little  boy  escaped  quite 
unhurt  from  the  flames,  quite?"  He  leaned 
forward,  eagerly,  clasping  his  hands  just 
below  two  rusty  but  well-brushed  creases  at 
the  knees  of  his  trousers. 

"  I  was  down  there  when  the  calamity 
occurred.  I  saw  everybody  safely  out:  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Marston,  and  the  boy.  Nobody 
was  injured.  Yes — I  make  a  mistake — the 
cook,  Rose,  burned  his  hand,  I  believe,  while 
rescuing  a  crazy  tramp,  who  somehow  got 
upstairs." 

"And  she — Mrs.  Marston — is  well?  you 
are  sure?  I  ...  was  sorry  for  her — ' 

Something  in  the  young  man's  voice,  a 
vibration,  a  tremor,  caused  Mr.  Isham  to  scan 
him  narrowly. 

"  It  was  hard  lines.  Yes,  they  were  very 
comfortable.  Mrs.  Marston  caught  a  cold, 
so  she  tells  me,  has  coughed  ever  since.  I 
have  a  letter  I  got  this  morning.  The  ladies 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        311 

stood  out  too  long  in  the  wet  grass.  They 
were  half  clad." 

"And  Mrs.  Marston  looks  to  be  delicate. 
She  could  ill  bear  such  exposure.  The 
shock  alone  was  terrible  for  one  like  her.  I 
wished  I  might  have  been  there  ...  to 
...  to  ..." 

Again  Mr.  Isham  looked  hard  at  the 
speaker. 

"  Mrs.  Marston  was  very  well  taken  care 
of,"  he  said,  a  little  dryly,  "  of  course." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"What  was  the  origin  of  the  fire?  " 

"There  are  various  theories,"  said  Mr. 
Isham,  vaguely,  as  if  he  knew  far  more  than 
he  was  willing  to  communicate.  "  I  am  not 
at  liberty  to  speak." 

"  Why,  what  can  you  mean?  "  The  inten 
sity  of  Oakes's  manner  seemed  over-accentu 
ated  for  the  natural  query. 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Mr.  Isham,  with  meaning, 
"  the  Marstons  had  enemies." 

"Why,  why,  Mr.  Isham,  is  there  a  sup 
position  that  there  was  incendiarism?" 

"And  sometimes  our  enemies  are  they  of 
our  own  household." 

Oakes  paled.  A  sudden,  strange  surmise 
had  crossed  his  mind. 

"  It  could  only  be  a  deed  of  madness." 


312       EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

"  Possibly;  but  I  will  ask  you  to  let  even 
the  little  I  have  dropped  go  no  further.  The 
family  have  decided  not  to  prosecute.  I 
mean — I  mean,  not  to  investigate." 

"Ah!" 

"Mrs.  Marston  is  a  generous  woman." 

"I  believe  you."  Again  the  young  man's 
manner  betokened  some  inward  tumult. 

Mr.  Isham  turned  the  subject.  "And 
now  what  are  these  papers?" 

"These  papers,  sir,  are  some  essays  I 
have  written." 

"Indeed!"     Mr.  Isham  smiled  grimly. 

"They  dwell  on  and  describe  the  lives 
and  the  homes  of  the  wretched,  of  the  op 
pressed.  I  have  also  taken  up  the  cause  of 
woman,"  and  as  Mr.  Isham  threw  up  a  dep 
recating  arm:  "  I  know  the  ladies  you  fre 
quent,  sir,  decry  female  agitators.  Do  they 
appreciate  that  all  their  present  ease  is  the 
result  of  the  effort  of  this  much  vilified 
sisterhood?  It  was  not  the  satisfied  and 
lazy  ones  who  wrung  reform  from  man's  un 
willing  brutishness.  They  now  enjoy  what 
the  others  have  died  for,  and  in  their  pam 
pered  folly  insist  it  is  enough.  But  the 
mills  of  the  gods  go  on.  I  thought  I  would 
ask  you  to  look  over  these  essays,  hoping 
you  might  consent  to  illustrate  them  with 
your  pencil.  Am  I  very  bold?  " 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART       313 

"Well,  yes,  rather.  I  don't  do  that  sort 
of  thing." 

"  I  once  saw  some  sketches  of  yours,  done 
when  you  were  young,  in  a  collection,  in  an 
exhibition  .  .  ." 

Mr.  Isham  leaned  back  in  his  seat  and 
gave  way  to  one  of  his  lusty  roars. 

"  Some  ass  kept  those,  did  he?  Well,  I 
was  n't  much  of  a  success  at  first.  Munson 
the  great  man  then,  told  me  I  'd  better  give 
up,  that  I  never  should  draw.  My  father, 
I  remember,  blessed  him.  But  I  was  pig 
headed.  How  the  bookmakers  do  detest 
the  race-horse  to  be  sure  who  bolts  every 
course  as  a  two-year-old,  and  manages  to 
win  in  his  fifth  year.  People  never  forgive 
us  whose  predictions  of  failure  we  nullify. 
Ha!  Ha!  Ha!" 

He  seemed  to  have  left  behind  his  phase 
of  despondency,  and  to  have,  through  some 
reminiscence,  been  roused  to  high  good- 
humor.  Pessimism  is  character,  not  phi 
losophy  or  belief.  Mr.  Isham  was  not  a 
pessimist. 

"  The  obstacles,  the  want  of  support  from 
friends,  from  family,  then,  did  not  cripple 
you?"  asked  Oakes,  with  earnestness. 
"You  think  there  is  hope  for  the  lonely 
souls?  " 

"The  nightingale   only  chirps  when  he  is 


314        EAT  NOT  THY   HEART 

with  his  mate.  It  is  when  he  is  away  from 
her  that  he  sings,"  said  the  old  man,  a  little 
sadly. 

That  ephemeral  beauty  which  Mrs.  Mars- 
ton  had  remarked  in  him  suddenly  transfig- 
urged  the  schoolmaster's  pale  face,  and  gave 
it  radiance.  It  did  not  escape  the  eye  of 
the  painter. 

"  I  could  take  your  hand  for  that,  Mr. 
Isham! "  he  exclaimed. 

"And  so  you  wish  me  to  look  over  these?" 
The  old  man  turned  over  the  leaves  of  the 
manuscript,  not  unkindly. 

"  If  you  will.  You  understand  a  few 
sketches  of  yours  would  be  to  me  of  im 
measurable  value,  but  I  don't  ask  favors. 
It's  not  a  habit  of  mine.  If  the  work  is 
not  worth  your  trouble — " 

"Tut!  tut!  Young  man,  you  go  too  fast. 
What  I  can't  understand  is  why  you  came 
to  me  at  all." 

This  indeed  was  a  mystery  which  Oakes 
himself  had  barely  solved.  Might  it  be  the 
eternal  answer,  that  Mr.  Isham  was  not  the 
rose,  but  had  lived  near  her? 

"Well,  I  will  look  over  these,  and  see 
you  another  day."  And  as  Oakes  parted 
from  his  papers  somewhat  gingerly  and  anx 
iously:  "  I  '11  not  lose  them.  Do  not  be 
afraid,"  he  said,  smiling. 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART        315 

"This  work  is  my  ewe  lamb,"  said  Oakes. 
"  I  hope  it  may  make  me  famous.  I  have 
only  the  one  copy  from  my  notes." 

"  So  you  want  and  hope  for  fame?  " 

Something  in  Percival  Oakes,  which  had 
for  a  moment  touched  Lola's  imagination  in 
the  wood-cabin,  something  of  nobility  and 
of  exaltation,  piercing  his  moroseness,  his 
discontent,  and  his  conceit,  awakened  Mr. 
Isham's  interest. 

"  Yes,"  said  Oakes. 

"  And  you  expect  it?  " 

"  They  told  you  I  was  a  fool,  but  it 's  not 
true.  I  'm  no  fool,  and  I  '11  prove  it  to 
them." 

"Who  do  you  mean  by  they?" 

"The  people  who  crush  us." 

"Whew!" 

"  I  had  to  express  myself  or  die." 

"  That  is  right.  It  is  better  to  express 
one's  self  than  to  die.  It  is  always  better  to 
speak  out.  Better  to  quarrel  than  to  mur 
der."  It  was  Oakes's  turn  to  laugh. 

"  Sometimes  the  two  are  synonyms." 

"  Not  always.  It  is  repression  that  makes 
the  criminals." 

"  Mr.  Isham,"  said  Oakes,  "  if  there  were 
more  men  of  your  wit  the  world  would  be  a 
better  place." 

"I    don't    know  about  that.     I've  been 


316       EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

outwitted  very  often.  The  world 's  good 
enough.  Oh,  I  know  there  are  rich  and 
there  are  poor,  children  die,  friends  grow 
cold,  lovers  betray,  envy  pursues  success, 
malice  and  treachery  are  rife,  and  all  the  rest 
of  it.  Very  bad,  very  bad,  of  course.  But 
since  struggle  seems  to  be  the  law  of  life, 
let  us  meet  it  like  heroes,  and  not  like  knaves 
or  cowards.  Those  antique  fellows  fought 
destiny,  the  romantics  were  after  their 
tyrants;  we  moderns  fight  passions  and  mor 
als,  and  our  hearts  and  brains  are  the  seat  of 
battle.  Now  you,  I  daresay,  have  a  griev 
ance,  and  you  have  aired  it  in  your  book. 
If  it  is  clever  it  will  bring  you  a  lot  of  fun, 
and  if  it  is  not,  it  has  at  least  given  you 
some  pleasant  hours  and  a  healthful  occupa 
tion.  All  this  you  will  say  is  a  selfish  view, 
for  I  infer  you  desire  to  help  humanity.  It 
seems  to  me  I  have  heard  as  much.  Well, 
I  hope  you  may.  It 's  a  difficult  job,  but 
not  impossible.  You  certainly  will  do  so  by 
cultivating  cheerfulness  in  yourself.  Then 
if  your  book  is  a  success,  you  will  assist  the 
publisher.  Mrs.  Publisher  will  get  some 
new  bonnets,  and  the  five  little  Publishers 
new  velocipedes.  I  wish  you  luck.  You 
won't  put  much  money  in  our  own  pocket, 
but  you  will  be  benefiting  your  neighbor. 
Good-day,  good-day,  Mr.  Oakes ;  come 


EAT  NOT  THY   HEART        317 

again,  come  again.  I  will  be  glad  to  see 
you."  And  the  old  man,  with  his  good- 
natured  satire,  conducted  the  young  man  to 
his  door. 

>  •  •  i  i 

This  was  Lola's  letter: 

.  .  .  "  Archibald  and  the  sheriff  and  Rose 
think  there  was  a  good  case,  but  I  could  not 
stand  the  husband's  humiliation.  I  just 
could  not.  He  took  it  all  on  himself.  He 
was  so  noble.  I  will  tell  you  about  it  some 
day.  It  seems  there  are  angels  left  in  the 
world.  Rose  says  it  was  all  envy,  that  she 
went  almost  crazy  because  she  was  not  some 
thing  else — like  Arden,  perhaps.  Arden 
always  turns  everybody's  head.  But  how 
extraordinary!  We  laughed  at  her  the  last 
time  we  went  up  to  the  cottage  the  day  be 
fore  the  fire.  It  was  horrid  of  us,  but  even 
if  she  heard,  how  could  such  a  trifle  turn 
her  brain?  Still  I  blame  myself.  I  might 
have  been  kinder,  but  she  was  so  absurd. 
Archibald  says  I  am  a  goose,  and  that  she 
ought  to  be  hanged.  Bush  and  the  child 
have  left,  and  I  hear  they  found  her  near 
Pontifex,  somewhere  at  an  inn.  What  a 
meeting!  But  that  man  is  godlike!  I  won 
der  if  she  confessed  to  him.  But  of  course 
her  disappearance  was  confession.  Was 
it  remorse,  or  fear?  It  was  not  at  all  clever, 


3i8        EAT  NOT  THY  HEART 

at  any  rate,  was  it?  She  must  be  just  a  lit 
tle  mad.  I  hear  they  are  going  to  the  West. 
Poor  creatures!  I  can't  help  pitying  her. 
She  seemed  such  a  proud  woman.  Here  it 
is  hushed  up.  No  one  knows,  and  no  one 
shall.  I  simply  dragged  myself  around  on 
my  knees  to  Archibald  until  he  promised 
not  to  do  anything.  Perhaps  it  was  n't  a 
very  strong  case  for  us  after  all. 

"Apropos,  of  Rose — who  insists  she  did 
it — he  is  going  to  leave  us.  You  won't  get 
any  more  of  his  delicious  bouillabaise.  He 
is  going  to  be  married,  and  to  whom  do  you 
think?  But  you  won't  remember  her.  She 
sat  next  to  us  at  that  terrible  political  thing 
when  poor  Archibald — but,  after  all,  I  be 
lieve  you  were  not  there,  thank  God!  Her 
name  is  Floribel  Pullen.  The  neighbors  say 
she  has  been  wicked,  that  she  is  very  sly, 
and  over-fond  of  the  gentlemen!  I  can  't 
believe  it.  She  is  candor  itself,  and  most 
attractive.  It  seems  it 's  a  great  passion, 
and  so  no  more  fish  soup  for  us.  I  hope  he 
will  be  happy.  He  was  a  good  fellow.  She 
was  fascinated  by  his  heroism  about  Jim. 
The  question  is,  does  he  deserve  happiness 
for  saving  Jim's  life?  Jim  is  such  a  nuis 
ance!  Archibald  thinks  he  might  better 
have  burned  up. 

"  I    got   a   chill    that    morning    and   am 


EAT  NOT  THY  HEART       319 

poorly.  I  cough  all  the  time.  I  look  quite 
pulled  and  hollow-eyed.  The  doctors  say 
my  left  lung  is  a  wee  bit  weak.  We  sail 
next  week  on  the  '  Moravia."  We  shall  be 
gone  a  year  or  more.  I  feel  depressed.  I 
think  I  must  be  ill.  I  shall  seek  the  sun. 
Come  and  see  us  off." 

THE    END. 


PRINTED  AT  THE  LAKESIDE  PRESS, 
CHICAGO,  FOR  THE  PUBLISHERS, 
HERBERT  S.  STONE  &  CO.,  CHIC  AGO,  U.S.  A. 


Date  Due 


PRINTED    IN    U.S. 


CAT.   NO.   24    161 


